


The Adventures of Tom and Barard

by Elenya54



Series: All That I Had [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 4th Age, Adventure, Hobbits - the next generation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, The Haradrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-27
Updated: 2005-10-27
Packaged: 2020-07-09 23:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 179,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenya54/pseuds/Elenya54
Summary: Summary: Tom Gardner is Samwise Gamgee' youngest son. He first appeared with Barard inAll That I Had.Together, they live in Minas Tirith, where they are successful and respected merchants. When a plan to start trading with Harad goes wrong, and Barard disappears, Tom must show he is truly his father’s son.This story contains same sex relationships, and is rated Adult for sexual content. The story contains violence, some references to non-consensual sex, and lots of hurt comfort.Uploaded to AO3 in July 2019, it was originally posted at a Hobbit-centric fanfiction site called West of the Moon in 2005, where the story had a loyal following, and won several Golden Mushroom Awards.If you haven't read All That I Had, please see my author's notes at the beginning of the first chapter for more details about the background to this story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In my story All That I Had following the post-quest lives of Frodo and Sam, Tom and the original character Barard first appeared as a plot device. Tolman (Tom) Gardner is the youngest of Sam Gamgee’s thirteen children, and - in “All That I Had” - Barard Took is the youngest of Pippin’s children. While writing, I drew up family trees, and as soon as Barard appeared, his name and Tom’s became linked as a couple. It was like two magnets coming together. 
> 
> At the time that Sam was mourning Rosie’s death and anticipating following Frodo into the West (All That I Had, Chapter 31: Death and Departure), Tom and Barard became a way of focusing Sam’s thoughts on the relationship he’d had with Frodo and worrying over what Frodo might be expecting from him in the future. However, from the moment Sam watched Tom and Barard walk away from Bag End, they leapt from the page as very loveable OCs. I thought so, and I was obviously not alone; they had so much fan mail that they started hanging around, drinking my tea, eating my biscuits, and making themselves at home. They even started asking for their own story. I pointed out, very reasonably, that there had to be a story. They looked at each other, and Barard said, ‘Oh, but what about that time…’
> 
> There are references back to All That I Had, so although you don’t have to have read that to understand this story, there will be a few details that may cause puzzlement. 
> 
> Where ever possible, I have included details of canon, so - for example - Sam became known as Gardner of the Hill rather than Gamgee; it is very likely his youngest son Tolman was born in Minas Tirith since Sam and Rosie were there with Elanor the year he was born (SR1442); and like his Cotton maternal uncle and grandfather, Tolman was known as Tom; Pippin’s son Faramir is married to Sam’s daughter Goldilocks. These details can be found in Appendices B and C of Lord of the Rings. I have drawn on the very scant details Tolkien gives us about the Haradrim in building their culture. Gandalf himself tells us he was known as Icánus in the South (The Two Towers).
> 
> As always, I write in English not American, a fact that always confuses my lovely beta readers who live across the pond. So, for instance, in Chapter 1, baulked, wilful, artefact and quietened are all correct.

_**Minas Tirith FA 75 (SR 1496)** _

Tom stretched out on his side, sleepily aware of his body’s movement against the warmth of bare skin that was pressed to his. Gradually he came to full awareness of his arm cradled across Barard’s chest, lifting and falling with his slow even breaths, and of the entanglement of their legs. The scent of their loving reminded him why the bedclothes were so disordered, and he inhaled deeply, feeling the resisting weight of Barard’s arm that mirrored his own. He smiled, still full of sleep. This was all he ever wanted in life, to wake with his love beside him. 

He was tempted to lazily nuzzle and stroke Barard to wakefulness and desire, but Barard was not at his best in the early morning, and Tom had another agenda today. Today was special. He eased his legs free and struggled briefly with the sheet that twisted about him. As he slipped from the bed, Barard made a small noise of protest and reached after him, but Tom could see his love wasn’t really awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, soothing red-gold hair back from Barard’s face to kiss his brow. That, and the sheets tucked firmly back in place, were all that was needed for Barard to settle back into sleep. Fine lines around his eyes would deepen in laughter once he was awake, showing the passage of their years together, but in Tom’s mind the maturity of Barard’s face only added to his Tookish good looks.

Tom sighed and tore his gaze away. He ignored the clean clothes that Hanril had left neatly folded on the chest at the foot of their large bed, and instead pulled on the trousers and tunic he had worn the day before. He would take a trip to the baths later with Barard, and the freshly scented linens would complete his feeling of cleanliness. For now he just wanted to be out to the market early in the day, to look for the best ingredients for the supper he planned.

Carrying a basket, he stepped out into the early morning light, and stood looking out over the city wall towards the mountains of shadow in the east. The distant ridge was tinged with a red glow from the sun rising beyond and as yet unseen; he cursed softly - he was not as early as he’d thought and the market was likely to be busy already. He took the steps down to street level at a run, and dodged the water flowing past in the gutter.

He called out good morning to the street cleaner, who raised a hand in salutation. The sweet tang of horse manure hung on the air, and Tom could see the barrow piled with dung, the street cleaner’s shovel leaning against it. He slipped through the narrow alleys, where night had barely been dispelled by the growing light and where the paving stones were cold under foot, and emerged into the busy main thoroughfare. While not crowded, there were enough people that he had to keep his wits about him, his small stature and bare feet a disadvantage amongst the big people. At each of the gates, but especially the lower levels, the crowding increased as there was a certain amount of jostling for position, and Tom’s basket came in handy as a defensive weapon.

‘ ’Ware Halfling!’ cried one of the guards, pulling a burly man away as he was about to tread back on Tom’s toes. The guard held back the crowd a little to let Tom slip through the tall gate. ‘No, no, don’t stop to thank me now,’ he called as Tom hesitated. ‘Take a breather on your way back, and tell me how your good-father is. You’re late this morning! Too much time spent rumpling the sheets last night, I’ll warrant.’

Tom laughed and nodded. He saw no point in denying what was no more than the truth. All the guards of the city regarded Halflings as under their protection, but seemed to view his relationship with Barard as meet and proper for bawdy comment. He didn’t mind, and rather liked the way they considered Pippin his good-father, as though the bond were established in law. The old Thain didn’t seem to mind either, nodding his head when he heard himself referred to that way, and joking that Tom was a Goodchild, if only through his grandmother, Bell.

Down in the wide first circle, movement became easier again, and Tom set about making his purchases. His first stop was for vegetables, and he wandered between the stalls until he found Iorlan. To Tom’s surprise, Iorlan was not alone. An old man sat beside him watching Tom with a rheumy eye.

Tom looked over what Iorlan had to offer and smiled at the man. ‘Good, you have everything I need. How is your wife?’

‘Better. I’ll tell her you asked. This is my father.’ 

Tom had guessed as much, although it was harder to guess an age; the old man looked about a hundred to him, which probably meant he was nearer eighty. With the exception of the King, men didn’t seem to weather the years as well as hobbits. Tom bowed to the old man, but had no chance to greet him politely because Iorlan was running on. ‘Tom here is a halfling, like in the old tales.’

‘I can see that!’ exclaimed the father, and Tom couldn’t blame him for the sharpness of his voice; he could imagine what his old da would have had to say if he had spoken to him like that, as though he were in his dotage. The old man peered at him. ‘You’re Sam’s son,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your father.’ He sat back, looking smug at Iorlan’s expression. ‘First time, I was just a bit of a lad, running errands for the city during the War. Four of them there were, and one of them your father. I hear there’s one living in the city still, the one we called _ernil i pheriannath._ He was a one for the ladies, by all accounts. Your father, now, he was a cock as strutted both ways, from what I saw of him.’

For a moment Tom didn’t know what he was talking about, but Iorlan’s red face and horrified spluttering made the meaning clear. ‘You can’t go saying things like that,’ the stall holder choked, probably not wanting to cause offence to a good customer, but his father wasn’t to be silenced.

‘You never saw the Ring-bearer without him, you know,’ he said, waving his son’s protests aside. ‘Never. It was the day of our King’s wedding I realised why.’ He leant back in his seat and pointed high up towards the upper levels of the city. ‘Up there. I was running an errand for the Master of Ceremonies and nearly ran slap bang into them. Kissing they were, just as though they weren’t blocking a main thoroughfare.’ He laughed. ‘It’s where their statue stands now, and that made him laugh.’

‘Who? Who laughed?’ asked Tom, fascinated by this memory. All he really knew about Frodo of the Ring’s love for his da was gleaned from the letter he’d been allowed to read.

‘Why, your father - Sam the Gardener. That was the next time I saw him, when I was a young man. There he was, laughing at where they’d put the statue, his arm around a pretty matron as was fair blooming, and a lovely lass at his side who reminded me of the t’other, the Ring-bearer, the one who went over seas with the Elves, if stories are to be believed.’

‘You’re making it all up, father,’ said Iorlan, but he was looking at Tom as he said it, apology writ large across his anxious face.

‘Do you remember any more?’ asked Tom eagerly, ignoring Iorlan.

‘Next I saw him, he had a babe in arms.’

‘That would have been me,’ said Tom, delighted. ‘I was born here, on mid-summers day. My eldest sister Elanor was Maid of Honour to the Queen. When I came back here, and saw the sunrise on the White Tower, I felt as though I’d come home, although I didn’t have any memory of it before. It’s good to know about the statue. I always thought it was a strange place to put it.’

‘I’ve not seen it in years. It’s not often I come to the city now, and even rarer I’d be in the sixth level. It’s a good likeness, as far as my memory serves me.’

Tom nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a good likeness.’ He resolved to go and see it again later in the day, but for now he took pity on Iorlan’s conciliatory bobbing, and settled to the matter in hand: asparagus, though his da would disapprove of it coming to the pan with such a delay after harvesting, but it couldn’t be helped; mushrooms, plenty of those, and he chose the closed cupped ones, their pinkish gills just visible, for making a light sauce; and new potatoes, to be cooked with mint grown in a pot in their small courtyard, then rolled around the pan with a knob of butter while still hot. He looked the fruit over carefully. Too early for strawberries, but the rhubarb was still looking young and tender. He mentally checked over the contents of his store cupboard. Cinnamon, yes he had that, but some cream was needed if he was going to make a rhubarb and cinnamon flan.

He completed his purchases with visits to the pastry cook, the poulterer and the dairy, and included some of the blue-veined Lossarnach cheese he was offered to taste. Wine they had a good store of, and there was no need to buy any today. He deposited his basket with the carter, and went to inspect the ponies penned near the main gate, close to where scaffolding had been raised against the wall. Stonemasons could be heard faintly calling to each other as they carried out repairs.

He climbed up to look over the top rail of the ponies’ enclosure; he hated peering through the bars, it made him feel like a small hobbitling. His friend Borondir the horse dealer came to lean on the fence beside him, and his weight made the wood creak.

‘I thought you wouldn’t make it in time,’ Tom said, looking up at him.

‘I promised, didn’t I?’ replied the dealer.

‘Yes, but there are many chances on the road that could have delayed you,’ answered Tom. ‘I wouldn’t have held it against you, but I’m glad you’re here. That’s a nice mare - the chestnut one over there.’

‘Ah, I thought you’d spot her. She’s had a saddle on, but she’s a bit skittish. Nothing you can’t handle, though. Maybe something a little quieter for your Barard. He doesn’t have your way with horses.’

‘Maybe not, but he’s still good with them. I’ll bring him down later, and let him choose, but can you hold her back, not sell her in the meantime? If he’s prepared to be patient and school her a little first - ’

‘Barard, patient! Now that I’d like to see,’ said Borondir in disbelief. 

Tom laughed. ‘He can be, you know.’ He watched the ponies milling around for a little longer. There was no doubt that the mare was the best of the bunch, although loud noises from the repair works close by caused her to startle. He glanced up at the sun and jumped down. ‘Time I was heading home. I’ll see you later.’

The day was getting warm, and Tom was sweating as he climbed the winding road back to the sixth level. He was glad that he had sent his purchases ahead, and equally glad to rest with the guards and give them news of Pippin. In truth it was hard to know what to say. The old Thain was getting very frail in body, for all that he was as sharp as ever in his mind.

‘I’ve heard he’s not been to watch the new recruits drilling this past week or more,’ said one of the guards.

‘He’s been in pain,’ said Tom, ‘but he’s getting about more now. I suggested a litter, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s not really been well since Captain Meriadoc died, though he won’t admit it.’ Tom knew Barard was worried about his father, and he hoped that Pippin would join them for supper. He accepted a drink, and felt his stomach growl with hunger. Time to get the long climb over.

It was as he came through the sixth gate, side stepping for one of the king’s messengers riding in haste, that he was hailed by a familiar but unexpected voice. He whirled round. 

‘Legolas!’

The elf laughed at his surprise. ‘Good morning, Tom. You thought me far away, I see.’ He knelt on one knee, and they hugged in greeting.

‘Well, yes, and it’s a long time since we’ve seen you, though maybe it doesn’t seem like it to you. Pippin will be pleased; he says you’re an honorary hobbit, did you know?’

‘Yes, I know. “The only elf to unbend enough to hug me,” I think were his words. I was on my way to see him. How is he?’ 

‘Since you were last here? You’ll see the difference, I think,’ said Tom sadly. ‘But, well, you know Pippin, he makes the best of it, and still finds plenty to laugh at. Hanril will have been in to see him this morning; we’ll ask him if he’s up yet.’

‘Hanril?’

‘Oh, it _has_ been a long time! Hanril has been our servant since forever. We had a few who didn’t suit, but Hanril is perfect.’ They climbed the stairs to the front door, and Tom bowed Legolas within. Hanril appeared immediately to take the elf’s travelling cloak, with just a flicker of interest in his eyes. Tom watched Legolas, and sighed inwardly as the elf’s expression became bland and noncommittal. He decided now was not a good time to practice his southron, and Hanril had apparently come to the same conclusion. 

‘I’ll tell Barard we have visitors,’ the servant said in his soft Gondorian voice. ‘I’ll bring some refreshment to the morning room. Have you breakfasted?’

‘Not to speak of,’ answered Tom. ‘I had a pastry in the market, but my stomach has been growling all the way back up.’ He led Legolas into the south-east facing morning room; it was a large room, well suited to men - or elves - but the hobbits enjoyed its sunny aspect so much that they had made their own smaller enclave within. Ledgers strewn open on the table told Tom that Barard had been busy while he was out. 

No sooner had the door closed, than Legolas turned to him, eyes drawn into a deep frown. ‘What are you thinking, Tom?’ he asked. ‘The man is one of the Haradrim, you only have to look at him to see that.’

‘Then you should look closer than his swarthy skin,’ said Tom, anger flaring on Hanril's behalf. ‘His father is Gondorian; it’s his mother who comes from the south, and she was amongst the slaves released from the Corsair ships. _You_ released her. Anyway, there is peace of sorts between Haradrim and Gondor these last few years, and Hanril is teaching us southron.’

Barard appeared in a rush then, and the discussion over the wisdom of their choice of servant was displaced by his enthusiastic greeting of Legolas. Tom watched, smiling, and waited his turn to say good morning to Barard in his own way. The light streaming through the window brought out the deep reddish gold in Barard’s hair and highlighted the planes of his face, more angular than Tom’s own. He felt the familiar warmth deep within that looking at Barard always gave him, and then Barard was in his arms. They let their hands and eyes speak, holding back kisses until they were alone.

‘Happy birthday,’ whispered Tom, pressing in against Barard in a way that said _later_. 

Hanril entered, bringing drinks and the pastries from the market, and Barard thanked him carefully in southron, but his request that followed made Tom choke with laughter. Hanril's mouth twitched in amusement.

‘Damn,’ said Barard, thumping Tom on the back. ‘What did I say?’

‘You said “Bring to me the camel I leave in your care.”

Barard’s face dropped into an expression of injured dismay. ‘Camel? But of course I said camel. Don’t say you don’t _want_ a camel for my birthday...’ He dodged the smack Tom aimed at his head.

‘I will get you the _parcel,_ shall I, little master?’ asked Hanril. 

‘Erm, yes, that would be kind of you,’ said Barard, and he laughed. ‘We’ll fetch the camel later.’

‘So why exactly are you learning the southron language?’ asked Legolas, looking gravely down at them.

‘Because we’re hoping for an opportunity to travel there later in the year; we want to see what trade can be done,’ said Tom, while Barard handed food and drink to the elf. 

‘That sounds a dangerous idea,’ said Legolas. He sipped his drink and looked from one hobbit to the other.

‘Oh, it is,’ said Tom. ‘We’re in danger of coming back with more camels than we know what to do with if Barard has a hand in negotiations.’ Barard snorted, and Tom watched the merest flicker of the elf’s features that showed his amusement. 

‘I’m serious. This is not somewhere to go on a hobbit walking tour.’

‘We’ve spent a lot of time talking to the king’s advisor on foreign affairs,’ said Barard, a little stiffly. ‘There is peace at the moment, and the Haradrim are courting the king’s favour; we have the king’s permission to negotiate a visit to Harad with their ambassadors. We’re not treating this as some lark, but we don’t believe we would be in great danger if we go on an official visit and neither does Elessar.’

‘We’re not shop keepers, Legolas,’ added Tom. ‘We’re often in some danger.’

‘It’s what we enjoy.’

‘We could give up now and live very comfortably - in the Shire anyway - but that’s not what we want. There’d be no living with Barard in retired obscurity.’ 

‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’

‘You’d go off like a firecracker, my love, you know you don’t do quiet pastoral pursuits very well. You’d start pacing and twitching like you do when we visit Tuckborough.’

‘That’s not the quietness, that’s all those damn relations.’

‘Well, I usually hide under the table.’

‘You’re exaggerating.’

There was the sound of a throat being cleared. Hanril stood in the doorway holding out a large flat parcel. Tom kept half an eye on Legolas and saw him blink at Barard’s smooth transition from arguing to gift-giving. Barard threw an arm around Tom, where a moment before he had been glaring at him, and reached for the parcel with his free hand. ‘This is for you,’ he said quietly. ‘I hope you like it.’ 

It was obviously a picture, Tom could feel the frame through the wrapping paper, and suddenly the reason for Barard vetoing every suggestion he’d made for what to put above the fireplace in the sitting room made perfect sense. Whatever the picture was, it must have been planned for some time. It was large, and awkward to hold and unwrap at the same time, so Tom sat down and laid it on his lap. As the paper fell away he gasped and looked at Barard. He was speechless and close to tears. It was a portrait of his parents.

Barard knelt beside him and touched his cheek. ‘You do like it, don’t you?’ he asked anxiously.

Tom found his voice. ‘Of course I do,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It’s lovely. How...? Where...?’

‘It was in a private collection. It must have been painted the year you were born. One of the King’s counsellors tipped me off - and introduced me to the collector.’ 

Tom didn’t ask how Barard had persuaded the former owner to part with it. He blinked back tears as he gazed into Barard’s eyes and wished Legolas a thousand leagues away.

The elf cleared his throat, as though he wished the same thing. ‘A very happy birthday to you, Barard. It’s a good painting, Tom. Very like your father. Perhaps I could come and look at it more closely another time.’ 

Tom looked at Barard, his question conveyed by a raised eyebrow. Barard nodded. ‘Will you join us for supper, Legolas?’ he asked. ‘Tom’s making something special, and you know what a good cook he is.’

‘Thank you, that is very kind of you, but I didn’t know that today was your birthday, and I have already promised Elessar that I will join him. Maybe you would do me the honour of being my guests tomorrow.’ Legolas laid plate and glass down on the low table. ‘Thank you for the welcome refreshment; if you will excuse me, I will go to see Pippin, now.’

‘It’s always good to see you, Legolas,’ said Tom. ‘We’d be delighted to join you tomorrow, thank you.’

Barard nodded. ‘We’ll come down with you now to Father’s, before we go to the baths.’

‘And after lunch we’ll go down to the first level,’ added Tom.

‘We will?’ 

‘Yes.’

Pippin was not at all surprised to see Legolas with them, and Tom suspected that Hanril had been down to forewarn him of their visitor. The old hobbit struggled to his feet and hobbled over despite Legolas’s protest that he should not trouble himself to get up. 

‘Decrepit I may be,’ said Pippin, ‘but I can still get up to greet a friend, Legolas.’ Tom and Barard exchanged glances as Legolas knelt down to hug his small friend; it was obvious that Pippin was in pain by the way he moved.

‘Have you taken your medicine this morning, Father?’ asked Barard.

Pippin waved a disparaging hand. ‘Yes, yes. And I’m going to the Houses of Healing later, so stop fussing. Come here and let me wish you a very happy birthday. My little Barard, fifty!’

Barard hugged and kissed his father, and helped him sit down again. Tom handed Barard the parcel he had carried down. It was much smaller than his own present, but obviously another picture. Barard had been very secretive about it, and Tom was intrigued.

Barard kissed his father again as he handed it over, and Pippin unwrapped it with hands that were never free of a fine tremor. He sat staring at it as his fingers traced over the features. Tom peered over Barard’s shoulder. He knew the face in the painting, just as if he had met this hero of Gondor in real life: his father’s lover, Frodo of the Nine Fingers, whose portrait had been part of his world all the time he was growing up.

Pippin looked up, his eyes overly bright, and squeezed his son’s hand. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know where you found it, but thank you. Thank you, my dear boy. They’ve all gone now, you know, but it’s Frodo I think about the most, think about and wonder...’ 

‘It’s a good likeness,’ said Legolas gently.

Pippin looked up at the elf. ‘One day you’ll know what happened, won’t you?’ he said, sadly. ‘I do wish I could know.’ 

Tom understood exactly how he felt; with so many memories surfacing of times past, his mind slipped into a familiar and unanswerable question. _Did you find him, Dada? Was he there, as you hoped?_

Later, walking to the baths, Barard sighed. ‘I think I just made Father sad,’ he said.

‘Well, maybe,’ said Tom. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’d want to give the picture back. He’s always talking about Frodo of the Ring; I think it’s a present that will mean a lot to him. Where did you find it?’

‘It was part of the same collection. I was lucky that the man was prepared to sell. I think it was only because they were going to Father and you that he finally agreed. That, and the King helped me by letting me act as go-between in arranging the sale of some artefacts from the War of the Ring that the collector wanted.’

They walked in silence for a few moments, each busy with his own thoughts, and then Barard started humming a popular song, full of innuendo. He danced sideways next to Tom for a few steps, and Tom laughed at the predictability of it; Barard loved birthdays, and they didn’t even have to be his own.

‘Have you heard of acting your age?’ Tom asked with affection.

‘The time to do that is when I’m as old as Father,’ said Barard. ‘So why are we going down to the first level later? Are you going to tell me?’

‘Not entirely, but the reason is because I’ve decided to adopt a custom of men.’

‘Ah,’ said Barard. ‘We’re going to buy you some shoes. Hey! The baths are this way!’

‘But we’re going this way first.’ Tom smiled as Barard fell into step beside him without argument.

‘Did you know fifty is the age that both Bilbo and Frodo set out on their adventures?’

‘Yes, I did. I hope you aren’t thinking of going off on an adventure without me.’ They fetched up next to the statue of Frodo and Sam that stood in the middle of the wide thoroughfare, and Tom ran a hand over the carved figures. The white marble was cool to touch. ‘I heard an interesting story today. Apparently my da was amused about the statue being put here.’

‘It always seemed a very random place to have it,’ said Barard. 

‘Not random at all, apparently, but a joke by the burghers of Gondor. My da and Frodo stood here, getting in everyone's way on the morning of the Royal Wedding and - well, I’ll show you what they did.’ He drew Barard close, and there was no passive acquiescence: Barard was ready for him, meeting his mouth with hunger, pressing in against his body with an urgency that never dimmed with the passing of time. All the years between fell away, and Tom felt like a tween again with his first taste of what loving Barard was like. They settled into a rhythm, echoed in the movement of their hands, and Barard was all lean strength confined within his arms. 

The taste of him, the way his tongue furled around Tom’s, the scent of beeswax and parchment, the slow thrusting grind of his arousal against Tom’s - it was all Barard, his Barard. Even the teasing, daring him to give in to the rise of desire, was Barard, carrying with it the memory of their lovemaking in outrageous places where the risk of discovery had been high. 

Barard laughed softly as they parted, face and lips flushed, eyes bright. ‘They never!’ he said. ‘Shocking behaviour in public. Do you think they’ll put up a statue to us now?’

‘More likely arrest us for disturbance of the peace,’ said Tom breathlessly, glad to feel a cool breeze on his heated face.

‘Have I disturbed your peace?’

‘You always do.’ Tom looked up at the statue. His father stood just behind Frodo of the Ring’s right shoulder, where his right hand rested, covered by Frodo’s left hand. There was the slightest tilt of their heads towards each other. ‘Did they feel like this, do you think? How could they bear to part?’

‘Frodo of the Ring was ill a lot of the time, wasn’t he? Maybe that made a difference.’

‘But you read the letter! It was so... so intense. I can’t imagine living without you, my love.’

‘Whoa!’ said Barard, frowning. ‘Where did that come from? Let’s hope the baths are quiet and I’ll bugger you until you can’t think straight, if that’s where your thinking gets you. Then we’ll go to a tavern for some lunch, and I’ll get you pissed as a newt.’

Tom laughed. ‘Sounds a good plan.’ He knew even Barard would not be so lost to public decency as to really take him like that in a public bath, but later, as he sat back in Barard’s arms on the steps leading down into the water, he was not disappointed by the slow smoothing of soap-slick hands over his body. Warm palms slid over his belly and legs, and lightly ghosted across his thighs, pulling a moan from him. It was unlikely they were the only ones to do such things, judging by the noise and bustle the attendant always made when ushering in another bather; it gave plenty of time to slip into the water and hide the evidence should that prove necessary. Tom looked down; for now the evidence was full and needy and plain to see, leaking a little fluid in his anticipation. Barard’s hand closed around his sac, cupping and rolling, and Tom moaned again as his muscles spasmed, and his eager cock jerked to get his love’s attention. 

Barard laughed softly. ‘Now who’s the impatient one,’ he asked, and the husky tone and breath warm in Tom’s ear, made his whole body arch back, lifting his hips to beg Barard to give him something to thrust against. Barard’s hand trailed up to rub over heated swelling, and Tom jerked, then swore as Barard moved on to circle over his belly again.

‘So why are we going down to the first level?’ murmured Barard. ‘What mad mannish custom are you after following?’ 

‘Present,’ grunted, Tom curling his fingers in the hair at Barard's nape. After all that didn’t tell him _what_ the present was. 

‘Really? Oh, that sounds good.’ Barard’s fingers came teasing down to brush the tip of Tom’s cock and slid away again. ‘Are you going to tell me what? No? You expect me to be patient? Like you?’

Tom whimpered as Barard stroked down between his legs. ‘If someone comes and you’ve not finished,’ he muttered, ‘then I swear I’ll... Aaagh! Do that again. Yes!’ Barard’s touch was sure, and there was no need to tell him how close... how close... 

Barard shifted, supporting him, laying him down on the cool white stone, kneeling over him. He gazed into Tom’s eyes a moment, before bending low and slowly enveloping him in his mouth. Tom’s eyelids fluttered shut, and he blindly tightened his fingers into the hair falling over the clenched muscles of his belly. Barard’s knowing tongue swirled and suckled, and Tom felt as though he were falling, falling into a roaring, rushing void.

‘Barard! I... gh...’ 

He gave in and went with the flow, pulsing deep in the moist warm confines of Barard’s mouth. He was only dimly aware of the rhythmical contraction that met each wave of release as Barard swallowed all that he had to give. 

With difficulty in his boneless state, Tom lifted his head. ‘I love you, you crazy Took,’ he managed, and then his head fell back again. ‘Ow.’

‘Think of it as a little present on account,’ said Barard sitting astride his hips. ‘I really am going to bugger you senseless tonight, in the comfort of our own bed.’

Tom stroked his fingers over Barard’s face, tracing along his jaw line. ‘Don’t you want me to - ’ 

‘Do the same for me? Not everyone is as impatient as you, my Tom.’ He laughed as Tom snorted, then tilted his head, listening. ‘Oh, orcs’ blood! Someone’s coming!’ He hauled Tom up, and they slipped into the water, snatching a last kiss before they had to behave with propriety. ‘Stop blushing, Tom,’ hissed Barard as they moved apart. ‘Honestly, you’re such a give away.’

They lunched sitting out on the vine-hung terrace outside their favourite tavern, looking out over a busy square. The sixth circle was a mix of the wealthiest citizens and the king’s guards and messengers, and Barard and Tom were at home with them all. There were swordsmiths and armourers here, and a farrier; the only stables within the city walls was a short mews away, and the tavern was a good place to watch the comings and goings of the king’s messengers. It was also favoured by the Tower Guards, who looked on the halflings as their own, and was well placed for picking up gossip and news from afar. In addition - but an important addition for the hobbits - the food was more substantial than the fashionable restaurants in the more northern environs of the circle. 

The inn keeper fussed around them, usurping the place of the serving girl to bring them wine and bread and to take their order. He beamed at Barard when the hobbit ordered drinks all round. ‘A celebration, is it?’ he asked. ‘Your birthday, perhaps?’ 

He spread the word with the drinks, and the soldiers came to wish Barard health and happiness in the coming year. A messenger who was well known to them slipped between the guards, and Tom shifted to make room for him. ‘What news from the south, Thorgond?’ he asked. 

Thorgond raised his tankard in salute to Barard and took a long pull at his beer. He placed the drink down on their table with a sigh. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe what camel’s piss they call beer south of the Poros. What news? The King permits me to tell you a delegation is coming from Harad in two months; he asks me to tell you that he will speak to you further about this, since their main aim is trade.’

Tom looked at Barard, and saw his own delight reflected back. This was what they had been waiting to hear. ‘Tell us what you saw, when you were there,’ said Barard. He summoned the inn keeper over with a wave of his hand. ‘What would you like to eat, Thorgond?’

Thorgond told them all he could, which was not much. He had not been allowed to cross the Harnen and enter Harad. The two hobbits discussed what they had learnt as they walked down to the first circle. The idea of people being bought and sold as slaves, like sheep at the Free Fair, was not a welcome one, so foreign as it was to a hobbit’s viewpoint. ‘How can you own someone else?’ asked Barard.

Tom shrugged. ‘It shouldn’t be possible. I hope they don’t offer slaves to the king; Elessar would have an apoplexy. It may not be possible to even consider trading with them, if everything is based on slave labour as Thorgond suggests.’

‘Maybe the more contact they have with Gondor and Arnor, they more influence the north can have,’ said Barard thoughtfully. ‘I think we should go and look, anyway. Thorgond seems to think their ruler is unpopular; remember Elessar said their Royal Family was displaced under Sauron.’

‘But that was generations back, and they must’ve all been killed, so no help there, and anyway, who’s to say they haven’t always had slaves?’

‘It seems a very Sauronish sort of thing, though, doesn’t it? said Barard. ‘Elessar may know. He went there, didn’t he? Maybe a hundred years ago? But the lands had already been under the sway of Sauron for a hundred years or more before that.’

They came out into the first circle, now considerably less thronged than in the morning. Many of the stall holders - those selling fresh produce - were long gone, but there were still a goodly number of traders: those selling imperishable items such as cloth, leather, and jewellery, those selling pleasure and providing opportunities for gaming, and - bowing in welcome - Borondir.

Barard looked from Tom to Borondir and back again. A smile spread slowly across his face. ‘Tom! You shouldn’t... I mean, it’s not even your birthday.’

Tom smiled back. ‘I told you. I’m following mannish customs. And anyway, I like buying you presents.’ He took Barard’s hand. ‘Come and chose. Borondir’s brought back some good hobbit-sized ponies from Rohan.’

‘Because you asked him to?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘So you’ve been plotting this a long time?’

‘As long as you’ve been plotting to get me that portrait, I would judge.’

Barard laughed, and they climbed onto the fencing rail, leaning close together as they watched the ponies mill about. ‘I guess you were telling me the truth, in the baths,’ he said. 

Tom cocked an eye at him, he recognised that look of studied innocence. Barard was winding him up, but he couldn’t yet see where this was going. ‘About what?’

‘That you love me.’

Tom leaned a little closer and brushed his lips against Barard’s cheek - more and they would be the subject of ribald comment from Borondir’s men. ‘My poor leman,’ he murmured. ‘I’m afraid it’s only my cock that loves you.’

Barard snorted with laughter, making the ponies nearest to them jerk up their heads and skitter away. Tom pulled back a little to gaze into his laughing eyes. He always had trouble deciding what colour Barard’s eyes were; sometimes they seemed grey with flecks of brown, but when they were bright and shining as now, they looked green. _Oh, bugger Borondir’s men!_ It seemed that the same thought had occurred to Barard, he was tilting his head even as Tom moved to capture his mouth. Despite the precariousness of their position Barard’s fingers very slowly traced around Tom’s ear, and Tom - with no real need for thought - braced himself to support Barard as well as himself.

There were a few wolf-whistles, but not the jeers and catcalls Tom had expected. Instead, the men started singing a rather foolish birthday song. Tom felt Barard’s mouth smile against his, and they deepened the kiss to outlast the singing, moving to the rhythm of the men’s voices. They parted to cheers and laughter, and some ribald comments about mounting and riding. Borondir placed an arm around each of them and nodded to the ponies.

‘So, are you actually going to look at them?’ he asked. ‘Or just give my men an excuse to waste time?’ Barard turned to the matter in hand, fingers gripping the rail securely once more, but Tom hadn’t taken his fill of looking at Barard. 

_How can I still love him so much that it’s like a twist of pain deep inside? he wondered. After all these years? Aren’t we just supposed to get used to each other and not feel like this any more?_ He sighed, brim full of happiness, and looked where Barard was looking. Walking in amongst the milling mass of ponies with bare feet would not be sensible, and they waited as Borondir’s men separated out three ponies that caught Barard’s eye, including the chestnut mare Tom had noticed earlier. 

The two hobbits slipped in amongst them with a halter. Quietly, they approached each pony in turn, seeing how easy they were to catch and how they reacted to being handled. The chestnut mare was a little wary of being caught, but Tom edged her out to the enclosing fence, and walked round with her. He didn’t crowd her, but kept pace with her, turning away a little until she came snuffling at his shoulder. The men were watching, and as Tom slipped the halter over the pony’s head, he was aware that they regarded this as some sort of magic, instead of just plain politeness. She threw her head up a little as Barard approached, but he moved slowly and spoke softly, and she quietened. They looked her over, gently feeling down each leg in turn, and picking up the feet to look at the soles. 

‘What do you think?’ asked Barard, deferring to Tom’s greater horse sense. 

‘She’s a fine little mare.’ Tom lowered his voice. ‘I think the men have been a bit... not rough, but maybe abrupt with her. She’s been very good about us looking at her. I’ll see if she’ll let me look at her teeth in a minute, and then I’ll get you to trot her up and down. Judging by what I saw this morning, she’s going to need some work to accustom her to crowds and loud noises, otherwise she might be rather a liability.’

They finished examining her, and agreed she was sound in wind and limb. She was so well mannered with them, Barard decided to try riding her. Tom gave him a leg up, but kept hold of the halter rope, gradually giving the mare her head as she responded to Barard. With no saddle or reins, he kept a hold, but the mare was untroubled by having a hobbit on her back. Barard slid off, and Borondir approached, looking relieved. The initial price he named was rather high in Tom’s view.

‘I’m not sure I should let you buy me a present like this,’ said Barard, and Tom schooled his face into regret as they ran rings round Borondir. The coins Tom finally handed over were a fair price for the mare.

They borrowed the halter to lead her up through the city, and twice she baulked, rolling her eyes and shying back. Once was for a crate of squawking, flapping chickens and once was when a dog ran out into the thoroughfare chased by a yelling child. There was little to be done about the dog, but they lingered by the chickens to let the pony get used to the birdbrained frenzy. Tom left it to Barard to soothe her, so she would start to learn who was her master.

In the stables, Tom’s skewbald pony, Legend, whinnied welcome, and the stable lad came forward to greet them. The chestnut pony was a little shy of entering, but they coaxed her in and filled her manager with hay. Barard hand-fed her a carrot, and patted her neck; she responded by nibbling at his hair with soft lips.

A fine bridle hung outside the stable, and Barard fingered it, looking suddenly withdrawn.

‘Give her time,’ said Tom. ‘She’ll make every bit as good a pony as Clover.’

‘I know,’ said Barard. ‘Better, maybe, if she isn’t so wilful.’ He lifted his head and smiled. ‘Thank you, Tom. I’ve missed having a pony that’s just mine.’ They shared memories of Clover as they walked back home, avoiding the last memory of all when they had been helpless in the face of her sweating and thrashing colic.

Tom spent the rest of the afternoon in Pippin’s kitchen, mainly because it was better equipped for hobbits, but also partly because they intended to eat downstairs and save Pippin from having to slowly struggle up the steep steps. Barard played checkers with his father, and when Pippin fell asleep, he came to sit on the table edge while Tom cooked, discussing the best way to school the new pony. Tom fed him tastes of the food, and was rewarded by the slow furl of Barard’s tongue around his fingers.

After supper, Barard stretched out his legs and loosened his belt. His face, in the candlelight, was a little flushed from the wine. He smiled at Tom. ‘That was excellent, thank you.’

Pippin’s head jerked up from the doze he had fallen into. ‘Huh?’ he said.

‘I was just telling Tom that the meal was excellent,’ said Barard, a little louder, and Pippin nodded.

‘Quite right. Very fine. You cook as well as your father, Tom. I think... I think I’d like to retire now for the night, and leave you young fellows to do whatever it is you do.’ He laughed and coughed and laughed again.

Barard jumped up to assist his father to his feet, and went with him to get him settled for the night. While he was gone, Tom tidied the table and stacked the dishes for Hanril to deal with in the morning. When Barard returned, he took Tom in his arms, and thanked him again without words.

They were tired when they gained their own room, and they let the fire of their desire build slowly. Tom subverted Barard’s plans, and it was Barard who begged this time, clutching at the pillow and writhing beneath him. A fine sheen of mingled sweat and oil clung to his body as Tom pinned him face down, his hand beneath them wrapped around Barard’s hard cock. Tom was panting with the effort of holding back, making small breathless cries as his other hand clung to Barard in bruising possession. His own cock slid oil-slick against Barard, and Barard bucked beneath, lifting his hips to beg more _now._ Tom’s grip tightened, and Barard gave a low guttural cry as Tom thrust into him, the taking swift and sure. With his last vestige of control, Tom lifted his weight away from Barard to allow him to rock back against him, and they moved together with the ease of long practice. Everything merged together, hand moving against rigid heat, tight pressure sliding around his swollen cock, oil and sweat and cries, and, oh glory, Barard going rigid beneath him. Tom arched up with a cry, thrusting instinctively; they jerked together, and Tom came in shuddering waves, thrusting again with each pulse of his seed. He was only dimly aware of reciprocal pulsing beneath his hand, of Barard sobbing his name, and he gave himself up to _feeling,_ blazing through him and finding release in his beloved.

It was over, and he slid down on top of Barard, too far gone at first to even kiss or caress. They lay together, heated and panting, unwilling to move while they were still joined. Inevitably, Tom’s spent cock slipped free, and exhausted they shifted to hold each other close. Slowly they came back to themselves, and kissed with great gentleness, in contrast to the fierce loving that had gone before. They separated, gazing into each other’s eyes and murmuring words of devotion that gradually became more grandiloquent and ridiculous until they were shaking with laughter. Tom felt Barard’s hands caress down his back; he yawned and sighed and lost himself in sleep.

In the morning Tom slowly opened his eyes to find Barard propped on one elbow gazing down at him. His eyes fluttered closed and then opened again as he gradually came awake, and in that small blink of time, Barard’s regard lifted from quietly studious to smiling welcome. Barard’s free hand brushed a lock of hair away from Tom’s eyes, and he sighed in a way that said _I love you_ as plainly as though he had spoken the words. His fingers trailed down Tom’s jaw, a light caress. ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’

‘If you did, I can’t think of a better way,’ murmured Tom drowsily. ‘What are you doing awake so bright and early?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just feeling restless. I think it was doing nothing very much yesterday.’ He brushed his lips against Tom’s in a kiss as gentle as a feather’s touch. ‘It was a lovely day, thank you. I don’t mean I didn’t enjoy it, and, well, if I’m honest, I’m trying to pretend I don’t feel like a little hobbit-lad wanting to rush out and see his new pony.’

‘She may have turned into a pumpkin in the night.’

’Exactly.’

Tom stretched. ‘What plans do you have today?’ His words were half muffled in a yawn. ‘I’m meeting the representatives from the jewellers’ guild later this morning,’ he added. ‘If they want to keep their markets in the Shire, and even Rohan, they’re going to have to rethink what they’re charging. It’s not as though there’s been an increase in their costs. Gimli says prices have been falling, now that transportation is surer and there’s less lost to brigands.’ He yawned again.

Barard settled into his arms, both of them happy to lie nestled together with no thought of more. ‘With Thorgond’s news, I thought I’d go and talk to the historian in the library and see what he can tell me about the Haradrim. When the morning crowds have gone from the market I’ll walk the pony down. Maybe ride her a little if Borondir can spare me an empty enclosure. That’s if you don’t need my help.’

‘No, I don’t think so, but how talking to a historian and looking through musty old parchments can be a cure for restlessness is beyond me.’ It was the great puzzle of Tom’s life: Barard, who had such a wild streak and was so easily bored, could disappear into a manuscript or a ledger of numbers that dismayed Tom with their incomprehensibility, and become so engrossed that he forgot to eat. 

Barard didn’t bother to answer; he’d never been any different. ‘What about lunch?’ he asked.

‘How about if I walk down to join you when I’ve finished?’

‘Mm, yes. Good idea. Where are we meeting Legolas tonight?’

‘No doubt he’ll let us know.’ Tom yawned again. ‘You’ve worn me out, you know.’

‘Poor old gaffer. You stay there, and I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.’

Tom pulled up the covers and snuggled down into the warmth were Barard had been; that was a rare offer not to be refused. Obviously, he should buy Barard a pony more often.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ said Barard, and laughed when Tom just mumbled in reply.

By the time Tom had finished with the heads of the jewellers guild, he was more than ready to be diverted by Barard. He had to remind himself that he was dealing with artisans, not business men, but he didn’t think they were being very honest. He would have a word with the king’s advisors. Having listened carefully - listened in the silences - he was fairly sure that the price increases were more to do with the guild’s aggrandisement than with fair remuneration for the workers.

He headed home first, to see if a message had come from Legolas, and found instead a bundle of letters from the Shire. They were mostly for Barard, birthday greetings no doubt, but there were a few addressed to himself. He was aware that Hanril was standing in the hallway, and looked up to ask him if Legolas had left a message. The question died on his lips.

‘Hanril?’ he asked. He had not thought that it was possible for the man to look pale, but he had been wrong. ‘Hanril, are you feeling ill? Do you need to go home?’

Hanril shook his head, and swallowed. ‘No, little master. There’s been... there’s been an accident...’

Tom stared at him with horror. He clutched at the hall table and felt as though he would double up retching any moment. ‘Barard?’ he whispered. ‘Eru! Not Barard!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It maybe helpful here to explain the Gardner, Took and Brandybuck family members in the All That I Had Verse. This information is repeated at the beginning of chapter 15.
> 
> Sam's children in canon are Elanor, Frodo (later Mayor), Rose, Merry, Pippin, Goldilocks, Hamfast, Daisy, Primrose, Bilbo, Ruby, Robin, Tolman (Tom).
> 
> We are told Pippin and Diamond have at least one son, Faramir (married to Goldilocks). I have added Bergil, Hildimir (married to Ruby), twins Pearl and Opal, Emerald, and Barard. The end -ard is fairly common in the Took family tree : Hildigard, Isembard, Flambard, Adelard, Reginard, and Everard all appear in Appendix C of Lord of the Rings. 
> 
> All we know for sure about Merry Brandybuck is that he and Estella had at least one son, since in Appendix B of Lord of the Rings he and Pippin "handed over their goods and offices to their sons" when they went to live out their days in Minas Tirith. I have given him Théodoc (from Théoden and the Brandybuck name ending "-doc" which runs down Meriadoc's family tree) married to Daisy Gardner, Estel married to Emerald Took, and Éowyn married to Robin Gardner.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom raced across the sixth circle to the southern end, where the Houses of Healing lay, as though the whips of Mordor were after him. He was hardly aware of people impeding his way, of warning cries or the swear words called after him; he had only one thought. _Barard!_

He crashed through the doors, shouting for the warden, and found himself restrained by a captain of the Tower Guard. He tried to fight free, but the man held him tight.

‘Steady, Perian, steady,’ said a calm voice, and Tom recognised his captor.

‘Let me go, Mabdil,’ he cried. ‘Let me go!’

‘First you must listen to me, Perian.’

All the fight went out of Tom, and he sagged in the arms that held him. ‘Barard,’ he whispered. ‘Take me to Barard.’

‘Yes, and I will, Tom. Trust me. But you must not make that noise here. Barard is not the only one in need of healing. Do you understand me?’

Tom nodded. 

‘Good. Come then, follow me.’

The soldier released him and strode away with Tom running after. They followed a rather tortuous route that took them away from the gardens and city wall. Tom knew what that meant, and he was in no way comforted; Barard was in no state to appreciate the healing benefits of a room with a view of the gardens. Mabdil held a door open for him, and a wise-woman stood as Tom entered the room. Tom ignored her, and rushed to Barard’s side. His love was lying, pale and insensible, with bandages around his head and one arm. The bed was of a height to be convenient to men, not hobbits, and Tom scrambled on to it. He slipped an arm behind Barard’s shoulders, and raised him to hold him close and rock him in his arms. Barard was limp in his grasp, his unbandaged arm dangling. Tom kissed him and stroked his face with his free hand. ‘Barard! I’m here!’ he cried. ‘It’s your Tom.’ He blinked back his tears; they were getting in the way of seeing Barard.

Mabdil laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder ‘The healer says he should be lying down, Tom.’

Tom shook his head. He had not heard any such thing. 

‘Tom! He has a head injury. Lay him down!’ Tom blinked up at Mabdil; he wasn’t sure what the captain wanted him to do. ‘Tom,’ said Mabdil, more gently, ‘this is important. Lay Barard down, and you can sit by his side there. I’ll fetch the Warden, and he can tell you how Barard is. He’s concussed, do you understand? He should be lying down.’

Very carefully, Tom laid Barard down again. He eased himself over Barard to sit tailor fashion between him and the whitewashed wall, and took his hand. He curled over him and gave up trying to prevent his tears from flowing freely. It did not seem as though any time had passed, but Mabdil was raising him up, telling him the Warden was here. He became aware that someone else was talking.

‘...looking in the old books of lore to see what I can find out about Halflings; very resilient, but rather prone to emotional and excitable outbursts. I see the latter is true, let us hope for the resilience as well.’

‘My father was in the army at the time of the War of the Ring,’ Mabdil said. ‘He told me how remarkable halflings are at recovering from even the black breath.

Tom took a deep breath, and with a huge effort brought his emotions under control. Barard’s hand was warm in his. He was breathing. ‘What happened?’ he asked, looking up at the men. ‘No, I mean, what are his injuries? Are they serious?’

The warden felt Barard’s pulse and lifted each eyelid in turn. ‘I don’t believe he is in danger,’ he said, and Tom sagged with relief, blinking back more tears. The warden looked down at him with a grave face. ‘But I cannot be sure until he wakes. His arm is no great problem: a clean fracture of his forearm, and it has not been complicated by the bones breaking through the skin. It has already been set and splinted, and there is every good chance of it healing true. As for his head injury, it depends whether there is bleeding within his skull, but I am hopeful. His breathing and heartbeat are normal, and his pupils are even. As for what happened, I am told he was thrown from his horse when part of the outer wall in the first level collapsed. There are others who are more badly injured. Stay with him for now, if you wish; I will return in an hour and see how he fares.’

The Warden and the wise-woman both left, and Tom looked up at Mabdil. ‘Were you there?’ he asked. ‘Did you see what happened?’

‘I know no more than what the Warden told,’ said the guard. ‘News was brought to the king of an accident, and he ordered me here to find out the extent of the injuries. There are five men hurt, one badly so.’

Tom held Barard’s hand tightly against his chest. ‘I bought him the pony,’ he said quietly. ‘Just yesterday.’

‘No need to blame yourself for that,’ said Mabdil. ‘He wasn’t the only rider thrown as a result of the commotion. One of the king’s messengers is amongst the injured, and you can’t better them for horsemanship.’

‘But if I hadn’t’ve bought the pony, he wouldn’t have been there,’ said Tom.

‘Ah, what if, what if,’ said Mabdil. ‘That’s a fruitless exercise, as a soldier soon learns. Deal with the what-is, anything else is just a distraction. Now, I must go and report to the king, and make sure the messenger’s bag is safe. If you will permit me, I will come back when I am released from duty and see how Barard is.’

Tom nodded, and as the captain was leaving he called after him, ‘Thank you, Mabdil.’ Mabdil just waved a hand.

Tom kissed Barard’s hand that he still held, and sat quietly watching each rise and fall of Barard’s chest. Sometimes he felt for the pulse in Barard’s neck, but he had no real sense of the passing of time. He was surprised when the Warden reappeared, and glad to hear him declare Barard no worse. The room darkened around him, but there was no need to move and light candles; Hanril arrived with a basket, and immediately set the room to rights, talking all the time.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. There was the pony to see to, and then I didn’t like to leave Peregrin until we had some more news. One of the guards came to tell us what happened; he said that Barard was in no immediate danger. I was very relieved to hear it. Have you eaten at all? I’ve brought some food for you.’ Hanril looked at the water jug standing on a table by the head of the bed. ‘Have you even drunk anything?’ Tom shook his head. 

‘Well, this won’t do, little master,’ said Hanril. Tom took the proffered glass meekly, and found he was very thirsty. ‘What did they guard say,’ he asked as Hanril poured him more water. ‘About what happened? The Warden said a wall collapsed.’

‘That’s not what I was told,’ said Hanril. ‘Seems there was some carelessness, and a rope snapped on one of the big pulleys that was being used to raise the stone for the repairs. A whole load fell from near the top of the outer wall. You can imagine the noise. Apparently Barard managed to keep his seat, and bring the little mare under control, but just as he was dismounting, the screaming started, and she was spooked again. That was when he was thrown.’

Hanril handed Tom some food, and Tom realised that it could all be eaten one-handed. It was one of the many instances of the thoughtfulness of their servant. ‘Has Legolas been told? We were supposed to meet him.’

‘I sent a message with the guard, but I understand he is with the king, so no doubt he knows anyway. May I stay a little? So that I can take report back to Peregrin?’

‘Please, Hanril, take a seat,’ said Tom, and turned his eyes back to Barard’s pale face. 

‘He wasn’t being foolhardy,’ said Hanril after a moment. ‘Borondir sent a message with the guard. He said to be sure to tell you that it could have happened to anyone.’ They both looked to the door as the Warden returned, accompanied by Mabdil.

‘Good, good,’ said the Warden after examining Barard. ‘I will be happier when he wakes, but that will happen when it happens. There is nothing I can do to hasten it. You may return in the morning, master Perian.’

Tom shook his head and looked down at Barard again. ‘I’m not leaving him,’ he said.

‘He will be well taken care of.’

‘I’m not leaving him!’

‘A word, if I may,’ said Mabdil. Tom looked up, but Mabdil was not talking to him. Both he and Hanril were ushering the warden out, but they might as well have stayed as their voices carried back into the room.

‘You will have another patient on your hands if you force the Perian to leave,’ said Mabdil. The warden’s answer was less clear, but then Tom heard Hanril’s voice.

‘It will be better for Barard if his friend is here when he wakes. They are devoted to each other. I think you will do harm to separate them.’ Again Tom could not hear the reply, but he heard footsteps fading away, and Hanril and Mabdil returned together. ‘ You may stay, little master,’ said Hanril, and Mabdil laughed.

‘Stay with the Warden’s blessing, you mean; do not doubt that he would have found some way to stay regardless.’ 

Tom just nodded. Of that there was no doubt. ‘Thank you both,’ he said. 

When he was alone again, Tom slipped off his trousers and tunic, and lifted the bedcovers. Barard had been clothed in a child’s night-shirt, and it was strange not to have bare skin to lie against, but that was a small hardship. ‘Be well,’ he whispered. ‘My love, be well.’

He hardly slept, for fear that Barard might worsen in the night, but dozed off in the small hours.

‘Tom?’

He was awake instantly, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the low light level in the room from the one candle he’d left burning. He raised himself a little, and was met with the glitter of eyes that were not only open, but seemed alert and knowing. ‘Barard,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Barard! Thank the Lady!’ He stroked Barard’s face and kissed him.

‘Where are we?’

‘In the Houses of Healing.’

‘Oh... Why?’

‘You were thrown from your pony. Do you remember?

Barard frowned. ‘No... no, I don’t. My head hurts, and my arm aches.’

‘I’ll find someone to get you an infusion for the pain.’ Tom pushed himself up, but Barard caught him with his good hand.

‘Stay here.’

‘Of course, if that’s what you want.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Since midday, yesterday.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You foolish Took, whatever for?’

‘Worrying you.’

‘Who’s worried?’

With difficulty, Barard turned to be enfolded in Tom’s arms. He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I’m tired,’ he mumbled against Tom’s chest.

‘Sleep, then,’ said Tom. 

When next Barard woke it was daylight. Tom had opened the curtains and dressed in anticipation of the wise-woman coming. He turned to find Barard’s gaze following his movements.

‘Where are we?’ Barard asked, and Tom’s relief faltered.

‘In the Houses of Healing. Don’t you remember?’ 

Barard shook his head and winced. He lifted his bandaged arm a little, it was held rigid from shoulder to wrist; he wiggled his fingers. ‘Broken?’ 

‘Yes, but the Warden seems to think it will heal well. How is your head feeling?’

Barard raised his other hand to touch the bandage around his head. ‘What happened?’

Tom sat on the side of the bed, bringing a glass of water. He raised Barard to help him drink and told him what he had learnt from Hanril. He wasn’t sure how much Barard was taking in, his eyes kept wandering away.

‘Tom?’ The voice was hesitant, and Tom wondered if Barard was going to apologise again.

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Why have I got rabbits embroidered on my night-shirt?’ 

‘Maybe they’ve heard you bonk like one.’

‘Ah, that would be it. Can we go home now?’

‘Wait until we see what the Warden says.’

Barard lay back and closed his eyes again. ‘As long as he says yes.’

It took some working on the Warden for him to agree to this. Barard was dizzy when he stood, but appeared agitated about staying, and in the end the Warden allowed them to leave with Tom’s assurances that Barard would not be allowed to exert himself, but stay in bed. It was Hanril, bringing fresh clothes for Tom, who carried Barard from his sickbed to a litter, then from the litter to his bed. He continued his kindness by helping Pippin up the steep stairs to visit his son, and - once the first flurry of activity associated with their return was over - he produced the letters from the Shire. 

Tom had completely forgotten about them. He sorted out all those addressed to Barard, and broke Faramir Took’s seal on the thickest bundle before handing the letter over. Barard pushed it back to Tom. ‘No, you read it,’ he said, and Tom looked at him suspiciously. Barard had closed his eyes again.

‘Is your head hurting?’ he asked.

‘A little,’ admitted Barard.

‘When the Warden held up his fingers and you said you could see two, how many _could_ you see?’

‘Four.’

‘Oh, Barard. He wouldn’t have let us move you if he’d known.’

‘Exactly,’ said Barard. ‘He must have thought I was really stupid. I can see two of all of you, so of course it must only have been two fingers, not four, he was holding up.’

Pippin laughed. ‘Don’t look so worried, Tom. If he can figure that out and fool the Warden, he can’t be that addled in the brain. You’d best read the letters for him, my eyes aren’t up to it.’

Tom sighed and settled next to Barard. He wanted to hold Barard’s hand, but he needed both of his own for the letter: one to hold it, and one to trace a finger along the neat lines of script. He was a slow reader, and knew he didn’t read aloud very fluently. Barard’s eyes remained closed, but his hand stroked lazily over Tom’s outer thigh to reassure him that he was awake and listening. Tom found it very soothing, and suspected Barard did as well. The news was all of small doings in the Shire, and Faramir wrote well. There were birthday greetings for Barard, details of the Thainship for Pippin, and news of Goldilocks and their children. As Tom finished reading, Hanril brought breakfast for them. Tom spread honey over the warm bread, and helped Barard to sit and eat. He was reassured by the fact Barard ate hungrily and drank a glass of milk.

‘You see?’ said Pippin. ‘He’s fine.’ 

Barard leaned against Tom, his eyes closed. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘But I think I’d like to lie down again. Will you read some more letters?’ Tom helped Barard settle with his head on the pillow again, and picked up another bundle.

‘This one’s from Fastred,’ he said, and Barard smiled. They both loved Elanor and Fastred, who were more like an aunt and uncle to them.

‘Oh, good,’ said Pippin. ‘Has the babe arrived?’

Tom read through the letter; he looked up and smiled with pleasure when he got to that part. ‘Elfstan has another son, and he’s called Samwise.’

‘Ha!’ said Pippin. ‘It’s about time your father’s name was remembered.’ 

Tom looked down at Barard. His head had rolled sideways and his unencumbered arm lay relaxed on the bedcover. News of their great-nephew’s birth would have to wait until he awoke. Tom stood up and stretched, and poured himself a drink of water; all the reading had made his throat dry. He was tired as well, but climbing into bed with Barard didn’t seem very polite with Pippin there.

He sat down again, and pulled out one of the letters addressed to him. Frodo’s writing was carefully rounded and always reminded Tom of their mother’s. He broke the seal and started reading, expecting more family small talk, but it seemed that trouble flocked together.

‘What news from Hobbiton.’ asked Pippin, as Tom read silently. Then, ‘Tom? What is it?’

‘Robin,’ whispered Tom. ‘Now it’s Robin.’ He glanced up at the top of the letter. It was dated later than Barard’s letters, but had still been nearly three months in the travelling; Robin might be long dead. Or recovered, maybe he was recovered - but Frodo wouldn’t have written of his illness had it not been serious. An arm across his shoulders made him look up.

‘Tell me,’ Pippin said, and when Tom hesitated, he added, ‘He’s your favourite brother, isn’t he?’ 

Tom nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, he... is.’ _We were the two babies of the family; the girls always treated Robin as their baby, after mothering him while Dada and Ma were here in Minas Tirith._ ‘Frodo says he has a wasting disease. He thought... he thought I’d want to know, in case I could... in case I could get back to the Shire in time to see him.’ He already felt worn out by his emotions when he thought Barard was in danger, and he had no energy left to fight back the tears that were too close to the surface. He pushed himself to his feet and turned into Pippin’s comforting embrace. The old Took no longer seemed as large as he used to, and Tom thought, _‘He’ll be next, we’ll lose him soon.’_

‘Oh, Tom, I am sorry. What will you do? Will you go?’

‘With Barard ill? No, of course not.’

‘ ’m not ill. Broken arm’s not ill.’

‘Barard! I thought you were asleep.’

‘I think I was. I’m not now.’

‘Stop!’ cried Tom, as Barard levered himself up. ‘Stop trying to get up!’

‘Well, come here then. I want to hug you, Tom. Both of you.’ Barard flopped back in the bed; he closed his eyes and reached out his hand. ‘Tom?’

Tom rubbed his face against his sleeve. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m coming. Just let me help your father sit down again.’

‘Hmph,’ said Pippin. ‘Just hand me my sticks, lad. I’ll leave you to Barard, and ask Hanril to help me down those confounded steps.’ He hobbled over to the bed. ‘You take care of yourself, and do as Tom tells you. Hm? And take care of him as well.’ Barard opened his eyes, and Pippin kissed him. ‘I’m glad you’re home, my dear boy. I’m glad you’re home.’ He gave Tom a last pat on the shoulder, and left them together. Tom could hear his cracked voice calling for Hanril, and a soft murmur of answer. 

‘Orcs’ blood, Tom! Do I have to beg you to get into bed with me?’

Tom blinked, and realised Barard was trying to push himself up again, swinging his legs from the bed as he did so. That got Tom moving. He rubbed the heels of his palms across his eyes and hastened to the bedside. Barard had gone rather pale with the effort.

‘What do you think you’re doing, you crazed Took?’ Tom asked softly as he slipped his arm around Barard’s shoulder. Just the feel of Barard’s head resting against his shoulder eased his feelings of worry and helplessness over his brother. The realisation that Barard’s breathing had become fast and shallow banished other thoughts altogether. He moved to lower Barard back down.

‘Let me lie on your side of the bed, Tom,’ mumbled Barard, as though talking had become an effort. 

That made some sense, and Tom lifted Barard’s good arm around his shoulders and knelt on the bed as he manoeuvred him over. Now he could lie down pressed close to Barard’s uninjured side. He pulled the covers over them, and tried not to remember his horror at the thought that Barard might be dead or dying. He had stayed on his feet as he ran through the city, but inside all had been dust and ashes and pain. Now he smoothed his hand over Barard’s face and kissed his pale cheek. 

’Dizzy?’ he asked.

‘It’s easing,’ said Barard, and his voice did sound stronger again. He nestled in against Tom. ‘What’s the matter, Tolly? Something is.’

Tom smiled to hear Barard’s old childhood name for him, but his smile faded as he told Barard about Frodo’s news.

‘You must go,’ said Barard with conviction. 

‘What! And leave you? Don’t even think it!’

‘Of course you can leave me. You can’t _not_ go.’

‘You can’t even keep your eyes open, love, or sit up without coming over all unnecessary.’

‘I’ll be fine in a day or two, and Hanril will look after me. If you won’t leave me, I’ll just have to come with you.’

‘You will not!’

‘You _must_ go, Tom. This is family, this is _Robin._ I’m just a bit rattled in my brains, nothing new there. But Robin... it sounds as though Robin is dying!’

‘He may be dead,’ said Tom, a dull pain under his ribs.

‘Oh, Tom. That’s no reason not to go. I’m serious about coming, too, if you won’t leave me. Give me a couple of days...’

‘I take it back. You aren’t crazed, you’re totally cracked. You can’t ride.’

‘Hire a cart, then. The road to Tharbad is getting better and better.’

‘If you think I’m going to let you rattle around in a cart... and the warden says that dressing needs looking after. It mustn’t get wet, and it must be changed in a week.’ 

‘So, you might as well make arrangements to leave for Crickhollow as soon as possible,’ said Barard. 

It was actually three days later that Tom rode out through the front gate on Legend with the early morning sun in his eyes. He was accompanied by Thorgond, who was going as far as the Gap of Rohan. A garrison was stationed there, to keep the peace in Dunland and protect the northern route to Fornost and Lake Evendim. Mostly the Dunlanders had placed themselves under the King’s Peace, but occasional outlaws were a thorn in the side of commerce. Luckily - or maybe as a consequence of the strong military presence - it was unusual for such ruffians to form into gangs, but even one man was a danger to be taken seriously. However, Tom was well armed, and he had learnt that a well-trained hobbit could be more than a match for a man who attacked with no skill.

Thorgond cast his eye over Tom’s weaponry. ‘I hear the guards boast about how hard they drill you,’ he said drily. ‘I hope they’ve taught you well; the unskilled are a menace to themselves as well as to their companions in arms, and that’s as true for halflings as men, I judge.’

Tom cocked an eye up at the messenger. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have cause to find out,’ he said. ‘A wild swing from me, and you could end up gelded.’

Thorgond threw back his head and laughed. ‘A worrying thought, my small friend, but at least you’re not a braggart and that bodes well. I must say, your company is most welcome. How is Barard?’

‘His arm will take time to heal, but apart from that he’s making progress. Not right yet, you understand, and I’m still wondering how I come to be setting out on this journey. I feel torn; I don’t want to go, and yet I don’t want not to go. There is no one dearer to me than Barard, but my brother is dear to me as well.’

‘But Barard is in no danger? If talk in the taverns be true?’

‘If I believed there was any danger, I wouldn’t be leaving, but I leave him unwell, and it’ll be months before I return. You know Barard, though. He’s very persuasive.’

‘Ah, if Barard was set on you going, then the only wonder is that you held out for three days.’

Tom laughed, and they rode on in companionable silence, taking the northern way with the mountain on their left, a league away, maybe, but still dominating their view. To their right, the fields and orchards of the Pelennor Fields sloped gently away towards the distant Anduin, dotted with clusters of farm buildings. There was a lot of traffic on the paved way, slow moving and throwing up a lot of dust, but Tom and Thorgond rode on the broad, green riding track on the eastern side of the road, and for the most part the dust didn’t bother them. Occasionally, messengers on more urgent business would pass them at a gallop, saluting Thorgond as they went. They made Tom feel restless; he would have liked to have galloped across the townlands to the distant wall. The exhilaration might have quieted his doubts about leaving, but he knew that tiring his pony, and risking a strain or a thrown shoe, was no way to set out upon a long journey. 

They did not rush, but neither did they dawdle, and they rode into the evening with only short stops to refresh themselves and their mounts. They collected firewood in the Grey Wood and camped near Amon Dîn. Tom built a fire in a well-used ring of stones. There was no need to hunt for food this early in the journey, and he cooked from their supplies. Thorgond rubbed the ponies down and turned them loose to graze. As soon as they had passed the Rammas Echor, they had left the crowds behind, and now Amon Dîn was living up to its name: all was silent as they ate their supper by moonlight. They cleaned their utensils by rubbing them with the gritty soil and rinsing them with a little water, before spreading their bedrolls and settling down for the night. 

Thorgond looked over to where Tom lay. ‘I hear there was a large amount of money given to the wife and child of the labourer who was badly injured,’ he said. ‘An anonymous donation.’

‘Good,’ said Tom. ‘They will need all the help they can get.’

‘He was responsible for the accident,’ said Thorgond. ‘There are some who say they don’t deserve any help.’

Tom turned his head to look at the messenger across the embers of the fire. ‘Are the woman and child to be punished because of the deeds of the father? And for my part it seems unfair to deny even him help. We’ve all done careless things and got away with it.’

‘You’re good men, Tom,’ said Thorgond. ‘You and Barard.’ Tom raised an eyebrow, and Thorgond laughed. ‘Good hobbits, then.’

’The donation was anonymous,’ said Tom, carefully.

‘As I said. Goodnight, Tom.’

It took Tom a while to get to sleep, as it always did at the beginning of a journey, and Thorgond’s snores didn’t help. He lay awake, missing Barard. His head knew he was doing the right thing, but his heart didn’t agree. He finally went to sleep with his old da’s voice echoing down the years: _Don’t trust your head, it’s not the best part of you._

They made good time to the Gap of Rohan, and Tom was sorry to lose his companion. They had exchanged stories of the Shire and of Thorgond’s homeland in Lebennin, and the time had passed more pleasantly as a result. Talking under the stars as they settled to sleep had also helped distract Tom from the emptiness beside him. He and Barard had often been apart, but never for so long. A week was probably the longest they had ever been separated, at least since they had reached an age where their lives were their own, and now he had been away from Barard for over three weeks. 

From then on it got worse, as he travelled on with only Legend for company. There was only the ache deep within, which he tried to ignore. Turning to the fantasy that Barard was taking him in hand just made the reality harder to bear.

The only event of any note on the journey was near the crossing of Tharbad. There had been a light drizzle all day, and no shelter for lighting a fire. Tom ate the remains of a hare he had shot and cooked the day before, and then rolled himself up, in bedroll and waxed canvas sheet, to doze disconsolately. He was jerked awake by Legend’s neighing, and threw back his covers to leap instantly to his feet. It was never wise to ignore his pony’s warning. A man was rummaging through his saddle packs, and at the movement from Tom, he spun round with a snarl, knife in hand. Quicker than thought, Tom reached into his belt and threw one of his own knives. It quivered in the narrow space between the thief’s feet, a warning as to the accuracy of his would be victim. By the time the man looked up again with widened eyes, Tom had his sword drawn in his right hand, and a second knife ready in his left. The man fled.

Tom sighed and patted Legend. ‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking we’d best move on, in case he has any friends about, but he looked half starved.’ The pony wickered softly and nibbled at his hair. Tom left some food when he went; there was a chance the man would come skulking round his camp when he had gone, and find it before the foxes did.

It was another week before he was fording the Brandywine at Sarn Ford, the fast flowing river swirling around Legend’s sturdy legs. Ducks scattered before them, flapping at the water in their haste to get out of the way, and voicing their opinion in loud cries of _waaack wack wack wack._ Tom felt a lifting of his spirits. He was back in the Shire. He still had two days of travel ahead of him, but he felt the relaxing of his guard as he entered the Southfarthing. There was a good route through the Overbourn Marshes, although the bridges over the drainage dykes were narrow. Tom dismounted at each one to lead Legend across. As far as he could remember, it had been Meriadoc Brandybuck who had overseen their drainage. The water channels were bordered by high reeds, and it was only when Tom was mounted that he could see across them to the winding course of the Brandywine sparkling in the sunshine. A marshman’s punt was tied to one of the bridges, but the only signs of life were the many birds: coots and moorhens - only distinguishable one from the other by the flash of white or red over their beaks - and a grebe swimming upstream with her young chicks riding on her back. 

There was a small delay in crossing the Shireborn while the ferryman’s wife ran to fetch her husband from the hay harvest. Tom waved aside the ferryman’s apologies, but happily accepted a warm pasty from the wife. He ate it as he rode, savouring the rich flavours after the short commons of his journey. 

The ferryman at Buckleberry Ferry was less friendly. He stared at Tom, eyeing him up and down with disfavour. ‘You’re not from round here, then?’ he said as Tom led Legend onto the ferry. 

‘My sister is Mistress of Buckland,’ answered Tom. He was too tired to start explaining that, no, Minas Tirith wasn’t in the Shire, and it seemed simpler not to mention where he was from at all. He also didn’t bother to mention he was brother-in-law to the Master of Buckland twice over, since his brother Robin was married to the Master’s sister.

‘Aye, I heard there were a black sheep in that family,’ said the ferryman. He turned away from Tom, took up his pole and steered them out into the current. Tom patted Legend, and wished Barard was with him. They could have had a good laugh about it. As it was, Tom felt tired and depressed. A black sheep? Was that what they thought of him? 

It was late in the day when he rode up to Brandy Hall’s stables and swung himself wearily from the saddle. He handed Legend into the care of a stable lad, shouldered his pack, and walked stiffly to the smial. Windows threw back the light from the setting sun, dazzling him, and he didn’t see the hobbit running towards him until she was almost upon him. 

‘Tom! Tom!’ The next moment his sister, Daisy, was in his arms, laughing and crying as he kissed her. ‘I can’t believe it’s you!’ She pulled back a little to look at him, and then looked past him. ‘Where’s Barard? Seeing to your ponies?’ 

‘Hello, Daisy. You’re looking as lovely as ever. No, Barard couldn’t come. What’s the... what’s the news about Robin?’ 

‘He’s very poorly, but he’ll be thrilled to see you. Barard’s all right, isn’t he?’

‘I hope so. He had concussion and a broken arm when I left, but that was ten weeks ago. He should be up and around and getting into mischief again by now.’

‘Tom! And you’ve had that long journey, and I’m keeping you from a hot meal and a bath.’ She sniffed him. ‘Maybe a bath before a hot meal. I’ll find you some clean clothes, something less outlandish. My Théo’s will all be too big for you. Frodo’s here, by the way. They’re in the study, talking Shire politics; you know what the Master and the Mayor are like when they get together. Go and say hello, while I get hot water and a tub sent along to one of the guest rooms. They don’t know you’re here; go and surprise them.’

Tom knocked on the study door, but opened it without waiting for a reply. Théodoc and Frodo looked up as he entered, and Tom laughed at their identical change of expressions from shocked surprise to delight. ‘Tom!’

Tom gave greeting Gondorian style, placing his right hand to his breast. He just had time to bow his head before Frodo’s arms were around him. He hugged his brother back. ‘Frodo! It’s good to see you! Théo! How are you?’ He released Frodo, and hugged his brother-in-law in turn. 

‘Tom, welcome. A glass of wine? Does Daisy know you’re here?’

‘Thank you, Théo. Yes, she does; she’s sorting me out with a bath before I’m allowed into polite company. She said you two didn’t count.’ 

Théo and Frodo laughed, and Frodo looked beyond Tom, into the hallway. ‘Where’s Barard?’

Tom sighed. ‘He had a fall, just about the time your letter arrived. He wasn’t fit to travel.’

‘Not serious, I hope.’ Frodo rolled his eyes and clapped Tom on the shoulder. ‘Now there’s a question as didn’t need asking. You wouldn’t be here if it had been, now would you?’

‘No, but... well, I didn’t like leaving him.’

‘It’s good of you to come,’ said Théo, handing him wine. ‘We wondered if you would.’

Frodo shifted a pile of maps off a chair for Tom to sit down. ‘I wasn’t sure about writing, but seeing you here I’m glad I did. How was the journey?’

‘Uneventful, for the most part. What news of Robin? Daisy says he’s poorly.’

Frodo sat down, and held out his glass for Théo to top up. He looked tired. ‘He’s been going down hill since Yule, but he’s fading fast now. He’ll be overjoyed to see you, though. You two always were close.’

Tom nodded at the truth of that. He reached out and patted Frodo’s ample chest. ‘That’s a very fine waistcoat, Mr. Mayor. Are you trying to take over the title of Magnificent from Meriadoc?’ 

Théo spluttered into his wine.

‘He’s winding you up, Théo,’ said Frodo. ‘Ignore him. I always find that to be the best way.’ Tom smiled at his brother. Frodo was so like the childhood memory he had of their da, and was so much older than Tom, that it was not surprising that Frodo was something of a father figure to him.

‘Éowyn’s having a hard time of it,’ said Théo after a moment’s silence. ‘First Father, and now Robin. It would be good to hear anything you can tell us about Father.’

‘There’s not much to tell. I put it all in my letter. Merry was fine one day, then just collapsed and died. The guards like to tell the story that he was rip-roaring drunk, but he wasn’t. I think he may have been slurring his speech a little, but he wasn’t drunk. I wouldn’t mind going like that - live life to the full, and die quickly. He _was_ a hundred and twelve. Better than... better than Robin, by a long chalk.’

‘What was it Gaffer Gamgee used to say about the Captains?’ said Frodo. ‘Large as life and twice as natural?’ He sighed. ‘But I agree, the long drawn out way would not be my choice, and Robin’s so young.’

It was too late to visit Crickhollow that night. Tom bathed and ate a substantial supper under the watchful eye of Daisy, who thought him far too lean for a respectable hobbit. He went to see Robin after breakfast the next day. If he had any doubts left about choosing to come, they disappeared right there, because Frodo was right: Robin was overjoyed to see him. He was bed-bound, and clung to Tom, laughter and tears all mixed up together. It was painfully obvious that Robin was dying, there was nothing of him in Tom’s arms. Tom laughed and cried with him, but the tears prevailed.

‘Hey, hey!’ said Robin. Even his voice was weak, but carried the same bantering tone as always. ‘Don’t drown me, little bro. Where’s Barard? Bringing your packs in? You are staying here, aren’t you?’

‘Barard couldn’t come, he was stupid enough to fall off his horse, but he sends his love. Yes, I’m staying, if Éowyn doesn’t mind.’

’Tom! You left Barard when he wasn’t well enough to travel? I don’t know what to... Thank you! Thank you for coming all this way.’

‘Oh, well, you know, Legend needed the exercise,’ said Tom, and Robin laughed. 

‘Tell me everything. I love your tales from the south. Sit here and tell me stories.’

Éowyn laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder and bent down to kiss Robin’s cheek. ‘Let me get him a drink and something to eat first, my dear, then he can tell you his tall tales.’ She smiled at Tom, and it made her look less tired and wan. ‘If you’re telling stories, I think you’ll have an audience. You’ll not keep the children away.’

‘Why would I want to?’ asked Tom. He turned back to Robin. ‘Your Éomund’s turned into a strapping tween while I’ve been away, I hardly recognised him. He favours the Brandybuck side.’

‘Ah, but Tomas is pure Gardner. He reminds me of you as a teen.’

‘That bad?’

‘Yes, that bad, but I don’t worry. I just remind myself how well you turned out. Once you and Barard found somewhere other than mischief to direct all that energy, there was no stopping you.’

Tom laughed. ‘I’d not thought of it like that before. Yes, you’re right, although it was Barard who was always leading me into bad ways.’

‘That’s not how I’ve heard Barard tell it, and I can clearly remember you being the ringleader sometimes.’ He took Tom’s hand. ‘I’m going to ask you something I’ve often wondered, Tom, and you don’t have to answer. Do you ever wish you could have children?’

Tom thought for a moment. ‘I love the chaos they cause, but I can have that without all the worry and bother, just by coming home to the Shire. If anything, I miss children in what they represent, a tangible proof of our love, I suppose, and a way to live on after we’re gone.’

‘So, you don’t wish you’d been drawn to a lass?’

‘No! Never. There’s nothing I’d change about my life, but I’d change this if I could.’ He stroked the emaciated hand within his own. ‘And as we’re talking children, maybe now would be a good time to say that if Éowyn or your children are ever in need, they only have to send word - I’ll do whatever’s necessary.’

‘Thank you, Tom. I know you will. Théo will look out for them, as well; all the family will. Éowyn will probably go back to the Hall to live...’ 

Tom nodded. There was no need for Robin to say, ‘...after I die.’ It looked to Tom as though that could not be far away. His throat hurt, but he wasn’t going to cry over Robin again, and he changed the subject to more general chat. In the end, he told stories to the whole family and embellished a few of the ones about Legend, until Éomund was openly incredulous.

‘I don’t believe you, Uncle,’ he said.

‘That’s very wise of you, lad,’ said Robin. ‘Your uncle’s an adventurer and a rogue, but I’ve no doubt there’s some truth in there, somewhere. The pony’s not called Legend for nothing.’

‘Does he really rear up when you tell him?’ asked Tomas.

‘Actually, yes, he does,’ said Tom. ‘It’s a very useful trick. It’s saved him from being stolen before now. I’ll show you later. He won’t mind; he likes showing off.’

Éowyn laughed. ‘Like his master,’ she said, rumpling Tom’s hair.

That evening, when Robin was asleep, Tom sat on the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, talking to Éowyn.

‘I can’t thank you enough, Tom,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to see Robin laughing.’

‘What does the healer say?’

‘That he could die at any moment, that there comes a time when a body is so thin that the heart just stops.’

Tom put his mug down and pushed off the table. ‘Come here,’ he said softly, and Éowyn almost collapsed into his embrace.

‘Oh, Tom,’ she sobbed. ‘Tom.’

‘Hush now,’ he murmured, holding her close with one hand and rubbing the other slowly over her back. ‘Hush now. All we can do is wish him safe journey.’

‘I know. I know. But I’ll miss him so.’ She pushed away, rubbing her face with her hands, and rummaged in her apron pocket for a handkerchief to blow her nose. ‘I’m sorry, Tom.’

‘Don’t be. It’ll be a sad day when you can’t take comfort from friends.’

‘At least I have the children, I don’t know what I would do without them.’

‘You have lovely children.’

She touched his cheek. ‘Tom, I worry what would happen to you if you lost Barard, or - the other way about. You’d be in that big city of stone, all alone, without your family.’

He looked at her gravely. That fear of loss was not so many weeks distant that the memory of it had dulled. ‘It wouldn’t be a problem,’ he said.

Éowyn's eyes opened wide in shock as she realised what Tom was saying. ‘Oh, Tom! You wouldn’t!’ She searched his face, and sighed. ‘Yes - you would.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I would.’ 

‘Isn’t that a little... well, selfish?’ 

Tom shrugged. ‘Then I’ll be selfish. I don’t have your responsibilities.’ He held up a hand as Éowyn opened her mouth. ‘And no, I don’t want to discuss that. Let me just give you another hug and tell you I’ll stay as long as necessary.’

Éowyn accepted the hug and gave it back in full measure. She kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you again, Tom. I’m going to bed now. Is there anything I can get you?’

‘I’ll make use of Robin’s desk, if I may, and write to Barard, let him know I’ve arrived safely. If I drop a letter off at the post tomorrow, it’ll get to Bree and hopefully find a messenger soon.’ Otherwise Tom might be home first, but that was no reason not to write. He wrote slowly, knowing Barard wouldn’t care how badly he expressed himself in words, and went to bed feeling depressed about Robin, about the grief that was already a part of Éowyn, and about his distance from Barard.

Through the following days he helped lighten the tedium for Robin, who was too weak to do much except lie and await the end, but who was still sharp enough in mind to press Tom hard in a game of chess. Tom moved the pieces as directed, and watched as his plan was obliterated. With a little luck on his side, he managed to turn fortune in his favour again, and made checkmate.

Robin smiled at him. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I hate it when I’m allowed to win. I can always tell. Now let’s try again, I’m beginning to remember some of your underhand tricks. I’ll be watching your wizards like a hawk this time. Look to your king!’

Sometimes, Robin just dozed, and Tom would sit beside him wrapped in his own thoughts about life and death. The words of old Gandalf in the Red Book came often to mind. _‘...and some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them?’_ Tom wished that he could, and wondered how he would feel if this was Barard’s emaciated form beside him. At other times, Robin was in a mood for reminiscence about their childhood, and that was fine by Tom, because they spoke often of Barard. 

‘I remember when Barard was born,’ Robin said one day. ‘You were, what, nearly four? You were so annoyed, because you’d always been treated as the baby and suddenly Ma and all our sisters were cooing over Barard, and giving him the little endearments they used to reserve for you.’

‘We wouldn’t let him play with us when he was little,’ said Tom. ‘He was such a pipsqueak. He was always trailing that awful old blanket around, and falling over and crying.’

‘And we’d usually get it in the neck for not having taken more care of him. But he always wanted to be with you when the two families were together.’

‘He says now he can’t think why.’

Robin coughed and his eyes started watering. He waved Tom’s assistance away. ‘I’m all right,’ he wheezed ‘Just made me laugh. He always did adore you. When he got older and stopped falling over, and started having ideas as mad as your own, the pair of you were inseparable.’

‘I used to love those summers, staying at Great Smials.’

‘Especially when you were tweens, heh?’

Tom gazed back into his memories. ‘Oh, yes, especially then,’ he said softly. In his mind he followed a winding path to a deep hollow not far from Great Smials. No one could remember for sure, but it was believed to have been a quarry once. Trees grew up to its edge, but the steep sides were part exposed sandstone, part straggly grass, and the dell was full of shrubby undergrowth. He could almost hear the cries and halloos of the chase as he and Barard fled from just retribution. What had they done to their brothers? All these years later they could never agree on the answer to that, but it had been Faramir and Hamfast who had been after them. He closed his eyes. He could almost hear the angry shouts of the young adults, determined to punish their youngest bothers’ tweenage presumption.

_As Tom ran, he heard the shouts grow closer. Bollocks! Barard was running well in front and Tom put on a spurt to catch up with him. He never saw the tree root that snatched his foot and threw him into Barard’s back. He heard the soft grunt as he drove the wind from Barard, and they both fought for balance. The next moment they were rolling and tumbling down the steep slope, tangled together to land with a thump that left neither of them capable of even crying out at the pain. Barard had the worst of it, as Tom landed straddled across him. They lay panting from their headlong flight, hardly daring to move as the cries of their pursuers followed around the lip of the dell and disappeared in the distance._

_Tom pushed himself up, anxious to see if Barard was hurt, and found himself gazing into laughing eyes. He flopped back down again and hiccupped helplessly._

_‘Did you see their faces? We’d better lie low for a while.’_

_’Ooph, yes. You weigh a ton, did you know?’_

_Tom pushed himself up again to deny the charge, and stilled at the rush of sensation as their bodies moved together. Barard’s eyes went wide and his laughing smile faded as they just stared at each other. Barard was trembling beneath him, and Tom felt as though he couldn’t breathe. There was a tightness in his chest, and an overwhelming excitement that had everything to do with his hardening cock. He had never wanted to even kiss a lass, and suddenly he understood why. He hesitated, knowing what he wanted, but unsure of the consequences. A bloodied nose and a furious Took seemed the best he could hope for, but Barard wrapped his arms around Tom, and tilted his head in clear acquiescence. As Tom leaned in to claim him, Barard’s eyelids fluttered closed._

_They moved clumsily together, hands beginning to roam, and Tom’s thigh slid between Barard’s legs. Barard gasped into the tentative kiss and arched up, rubbing against Tom’s arousal. Need jolted through Tom, and suddenly there was nothing tentative about the way they were kissing. Mouth opened to mouth in a heated sharing of desire, tongue penetrated within to be welcomed by answering tongue, hands explored bringing forth whimpers, and desperation was real and here and now and hold me, hold me, don’t stop, don’t stop. Everything roiled together into one perfect moment that faded into after shocks, and Tom lay in a boneless sticky heap, feeling as though he’d been winded again. He had thought he had fallen into a dell, and instead he had fallen in love._

_Slowly, not quite believing what had happened, he raised his head to look at Barard. Barard’s hand came curling round his nape to draw him into another kiss, quite different in its intensity. Quieter, softer, saying ‘Yes, it was good for me, too.’ They parted and stared at each other._

_‘You wanker,’ said Barard. ‘I’ve come in my breeches.’_

Tom gave a snort of laughter, and looked apologetically at Robin. ‘Sorry. I... I was just…’

’Good memories?’

Tom nodded. All good, but it had left him aching for Barard’s touch. 

On most days, Frodo and Daisy visited Robin, and other members of the Gardner family came and went. It was an odd way for Tom to catch up with his brothers and sisters, and Hamfast was the unfortunate hobbit who was one hobbit too many to ask ‘Where’s Barard?’ Tom erupted from his seat, his face aggressively close to Ham’s.

‘Not here, obviously!’ he shouted. Ham rocked back, holding up his hands to ward Tom off. ‘Hey! Only asking!’ he said.

Tom turned and stormed out into the garden, where he paced up and down, hating himself for losing his temper with his brother. He was glad it was Ham who came and found him there, who came and put his arm around him, and handed him a beer.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom. ‘You didn’t deserve that.’

‘Well, we’re in agreement, then,’ said Ham. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’

‘It’s the waiting,’ admitted Tom. ‘I’m missing Barard, and... oh, bollocks, Ham, I’m wishing Robin would just die if it’s got to be that way. How sick is that? I’m wanting him to hurry up and die, so I can get back to Barard.’

‘You’ve been cooped up in the sick room too long,’ said Ham. ‘And I think we’re all hoping Robin will die soon. We’ve been watching him go down and down for months now. He got around with a pair of sticks for a while, but it’s been too long since he’s been even able to stand. He’s nigh on as helpless as a babe. Éowyn told me how much you’re helping with lifting him, and keeping him clean.’

‘I’m glad to be able to do it for him.’

‘I know you are, Tom. But tonight you’re going to come out with me, and I’m going to get you as drunk as a dray master. The beer here in Newbury still ain’t a patch on the Green Dragon’s, but it’s warm and it’s wet as our old da used to say.’

Tom was glad he went, but he was even gladder that Robin waited for him to return before he died. Later, the thought that Robin might have died while he was away singing bawdy songs in the Barley Mow was not a happy one.

Full of beer and the lingering warmth of good company, Tom and Ham walked back from the inn to the house at Crickhollow. Ham took his leave at the gate. ‘I won’t come in now,’ he said. ‘Tell Robin, I’ll come by again tomorrow.’ He glanced up at the stars as they stood there. ‘Although I reckon it’s tomorrow already.’ He clapped Tom on the shoulder. ‘So I’ll be the first to say happy birthday, little brother.’ 

Tom mustered a suitable smile, but as Ham rode away to Brandy Hall, he blinked back tears and rubbed his nose. Maybe it was the closeness to death, but the loss of his ma was sharp and painful in his mind; she had died on his birthday. 

When he went in, the door was open to Robin and Éowyn's room, and candlelight spilled out into the hallway. Tom looked in, not sure whether to intrude or not. Éowyn was sitting in a chair drawn up to the bed, smoothing Robin’s hair out of his eyes. Her other hand held Robin’s, and she was crying. Even from the doorway, Tom could hear the difficulty Robin was having to draw each breath. He quietly slipped into the room and put his arm around Eowyn’s shoulders. She looked up at him, leaning her head against his body; tears ran down her face.

‘Tom.’ It was a hoarse whisper from Robin. ‘I hope you had a drink for me.’

Tom nodded. He blinked back his own tears and kissed Éowyn on her forehead, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief as he did so to wipe her face. He patted her shoulder, feeling utterly useless, and wondered if he should leave them alone.

‘Sit with us,’ croaked Robin. 

‘Please, Tom.’ Éowyn added her voice. 

Tom sat on the other side of the bed so he could hold Robin’s free hand in both of his. It was cold, and even in the indifferent candlelight he could see the bluish tinge to the skin. 

‘I love you,’ he whispered. He had to lean close to hear Robin’s answer.

‘Course you do, little bro.’ Another rasping breath. ‘What’s not to love?’

Tom choked, laughter battling with his tears.

‘Tell me... tell me one of your stories.’ 

As Tom began, Robin gave a feeble chuckle, no doubt recognising it as one of the more outrageous tales he’d heard before. He smile at Éowyn, and his eyes gradually close. It was like telling a story to the children at bedtime, watching them fall asleep, and Tom continued even as Robin’s breath faltered and stilled. He’d deliberately chosen one Robin knew. It was a stupid thing, but he couldn’t have borne the thought that Robin never got to hear the end. 

Funerals were usually quiet family affairs, but the Gardner family was so vast that even the funeral took on the nature of a feast, and the feast a week later at Brandy Hall in Robin’s honour was attended by half the Shire - or so it seemed to Tom. In the end, he slipped away from the memories and story telling, and found a quiet corner to sit nursing a glass of wine and a strong desire to be on his way.

Faramir found him there, and settled in beside of him, topping up his wine glass for him. ‘I’m guessing you’ll be away soon,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the letters from Father and Barard. I’ll give you my replies in the morning.’

Tom nodded. Tomorrow he would take Legend to the farrier, before starting for home and the longed for reality of Barard’s welcome. He wanted the comfort that only Barard could give him, and Barard starved of sex for nigh on six months was an interesting thought.

The journey itself seemed to take forever, and he was glad to fall in with a group of dwarves heading for Helm’s Deep. There were few other encounters. Once he saw a messenger riding fast back down the way he’d come, and thought he recognised Thorgond’s horse, but the dwarves had drawn into the foothills to camp, and the rider was too far away to be sure. He wished him good speed anyway. 

By the time Tom was riding across the farmland of the Pelennor Fields, his excitement at the prospect of seeing Barard recalled once more the wonder of being a tweenager in lust. Legend picked up on his mood and danced and sidled at oxen they passed. The pony needed no second urging to gallop at full stretch over the last mile, arriving at the gate in lather of sweat. Soon! Soon! They slowed to a walk; Tom patted Legend’s neck and called a cheerful greeting to the guards. 

The guards looked at each other and stepped before him. Tom thought they were going to tease him, deny him access to the city, especially when one caught Legend’s bridle. He laughed, but his laughter died as he looked down into troubled eyes, and his thoughts flew to Pippin. 

‘Did Thorgond not find you?’ asked the guard.

‘Enough!’ It was one of the Captains striding towards them. ‘Back to your posts! This is not the place for news, and you are not the ones to give it.’ He bowed to Tom. ‘I am sorry that my men - ’

Tom didn’t wait to hear what the Captain had to say, he set his heels to Legend’s flanks, and they raced through the levels of the city as only the messengers were allowed to do. What? What now? All he could think was that Pippin was dead, and he hadn’t been there for Barard. He slithered from Legend’s back and raced up the steps. The house had a forlorn and empty feel about it, and his voice echoed unanswered. There was no Barard and no Hanril. He turned, about to run out, not sure where to go for news, but he was brought up short by the sight of two letters on the hallway table. One was his own from the Shire, the seal unbroken. The other was addressed to him from Barard.


	3. Chapter 3

Tom snatched up the letter addressed to him and broke the seal. Where in the pit was Barard? He read it through once hastily, making little sense of the meaning, looked to the date at the top, and read it again slowly and carefully. There was a tight pain up under his ribcage as though a knife had been thrust in and twisted.

_Dearest Tom,_

_I will leave you this letter in case of any delays, but I fully expect to be home by the time you return. You will be pleased to hear that I am of as sound a mind as I ever was, or can ever hope to be, although I shall miss seeing two of you when you return. Two of you to make love to me - now there is a thought to keep me warm in my bed tonight._

_The warden has pronounced himself satisfied with my arm, and apart from a slight weakness (which he assures me will pass as I use it more) I am quite fit again, as I will prove to you in due time._

_Life has been rather dull without you, but now the Haradrim are here, and I have been attending the King in his deliberations with them. I have decided to sail with them to Umbar and thence to Hafar. I do not intend to spend long there - just long enough to get a feel for the place, and an idea of the opportunities there may be for trade. If I stay two or three weeks, I can still be home before you, even allowing for contrary winds and other such nuisances._

_However, if you are reading this, then maybe I have misjudged. Do not worry, I will be home soon. Know that I am thinking of you, and cursing whatever has delayed me. I miss you._

_Barard_

There was a drawing of a stoat in graceful lines beneath the signature - shaded above, and white below, a private joke between them - but it was the date at the top that drew Tom’s eye again. Barard had set out over four months ago. Tom judged the journey would take five or six weeks each way at the most, and far less with favourable winds, and yet Barard was _not_ back. _Did Thorgond not find you?_ With a certainty that numbed his mind he remembered the messenger he had seen riding hard in the distance towards Helm’s Deep. The words of the captain at the gate echoed in the silence of the house. _This is not the place for news, and you are not the ones to give it._

What tidings had driven Thorgond to race the wind across the plains of Rohan? One thing was sure: standing in an empty house was not the way to find out, and whatever his desperation, his duty to Legend came first. Tom ran from the house, taking the steps at a precipitous pace, and found what he took to be a street urchin holding Legend’s reins. Legend looked at Tom, showing the whites of his eyes, and Tom rubbed the pony’s forehead, beneath his forelock. ‘No, no, my lad. You did right. He is just a child and no thief.’ He went to lead Legend away, and found the movement resisted by the drag of the child, who topped him by an inch or so.

‘Please, sir, I was to watch for your return and send you to the king’s chambers. I am a stable boy in my lord’s stables. He said to tell you that I will care for your pony well. Lord Peregrin is with the king.’

‘And what of his son?’ asked Tom carefully.

‘I was told not to say, but... but my lord is in a towering rage.’

Tom realised he was standing rooted to the spot with his mouth open. Barard sometimes tried the king’s patience, but a towering rage? What in Eru’s name had he done? Still, if Elessar was angry with Barard, then at least Barard was alive to be angry _with._ The next moment that comforting thought was shattered into a thousand shards.

‘Oh, not with Barard, son of Peregrin,’ said the boy. ‘With the Haradrim, of course.’

Tom pulled out a coin and flipped it in the air. ‘And you can tell me no more?’ he asked, trying not to scream and go down on his knees to beg for all this servant could tell.

The child viewed the coin with a light of longing in his eye, but swallowed and shook his head. ‘I made a promise, sir, but I do know the king was due to see them - the Haradrim, that is - in the Tower Hall this morning. I heard that last night, and no one’s made me promise nothing about it.’

Tom tossed him the coin, and patted Legend. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Go with him, my friend.’ He himself turned and ran to the gateway into the seventh circle. The guards of the Citadel stood aside at his coming, and he didn’t even spare them a glance. He was hardly dressed for the council chamber, but he had no care for that. He raced into the bright sunlight of the Court of the White Tree.

The entrance to the Tower Hall stood open, and Tom could see along the paved passageway to where a crowd had gathered within the main hall. He rushed in at full pelt, skidding to a halt as three guards stepped out of the shadows to block his way. Nothing could be seen beyond them, but Tom reckoned a feint and a bit of weaving should do the trick. He had no chance to carry out his plan. A hand clamped over his mouth, and his arms were pinned to his sides. He struggled furiously as he was lifted off his feet. Just let them give him the merest whisker of freedom, and he would show how well they had taught him to fight! He was carried from the hall, kicking at his captor.

‘For mercy’s sake, Tom, stop kicking me,’ hissed a voice in his ear. Mabdil! Tom squirmed and kicked harder, and tried to bite Mabdil’s palm, but he couldn’t get a purchase. Another guard tried to grab hold of his legs, but Tom caught him under the chin hard, and the man swore. ‘Quiet!’ commanded Mabdil, but his voice was low, and he sounded out of breath. ‘That’s the king’s orders. Wait until we’re out of the hearing of those painted heathens, and I’ll join you in cursing the stubbornness of Halflings.’

Tom was vaguely aware they were carrying him down an alleyway and through a doorway, but he was too full of a combination of desperate worry and fury to take much notice of where he was. He heard a door slam behind them and a lock turn, and he was set on his feet. 

He spun around. ‘Morgoth’s balls, Mabdil! What do you think you’re doing!’ 

‘Obeying orders,’ said Mabdil, rubbing his shins. ‘The king’s orders.’

Tom found he was shaking. It was all too much. He had thought Mabdil a good friend, and King Elessar had _ordered_ that he be rough-handled like this? Not knowing what else to do, he looked around. The room was comfortably furnished, although comfort was relative. It was comfortable for a man, not a hobbit, and far from comfortable when it was also a prison. It was easier to sit on the floor than to scramble onto a high chair; Tom’s legs folded and he sat with a force that jarred through him. He wrapped his arms around his shins and laid his forehead against his knees, rocking slightly in his distress. All he wanted was for someone to tell him where Barard was.

Arms enfolded him, and he was lifted again, but all the fight had gone from him. Mabdil set him in one of the chairs and knelt before him to take his hands. ‘Tom, I am your friend. Please believe me. No one here wishes you harm.’

‘You speak in riddles, my _friend,_ ’ said Tom with bitterness.

‘I know. I’m sorry. The king will be here as soon as he can. In the meantime, servants will bring you a bath, some clean clothes, and food. Hanril is with the king; he will be distressed to learn that you returned and he was not free to serve you, but he is of more use where he is.’

Tom shook his head. Mabdil might have been speaking in a foreign language for all the sense he was making. ‘What has happened to Barard?’ he asked quietly. ‘Will you not tell me?’

’I am sorry, Tom. I have my orders, but all your questions will be answered soon.’

There was a knock on the door, and one of the guards, the one whose teeth he had made to rattle in his head, opened it. Servants carried a tub into an adjoining room, and others brought buckets of hot water. Mabdil took towels, soap and a pile of pressed clothes - Tom’s clothes - from them, and sent the other guards out. ‘May I stay here with you?’ he asked. ‘To keep you company? Or would you prefer it if I left?’

‘Mabdil, is he alive?’ If the answer were no, then Mabdil could leave, and the warmth of the bath would make his own blood flow freely. He could feel the sheath of his smallest knife, snug inside his waistband, offering this simple release.

‘Yes. He is alive.’

Tom closed his eyes, and tilted his head back against the upholstery; his tears came, flowing freely at the relief of it. 

‘Go and wash,’ said Mabdil. ‘You’ll feel better for it, _and_ smell better. No doubt the king smelt as bad when he was a ranger, but that’s no excuse for you to be in his presence with a smell about you that would tarnish silver at a hundred paces. You’d make a tannery smell sweet. Go!’

Tom went. It was easier to obey than to argue, and the hot water was welcome; less welcome was the thought that had Barard been at home, his head would have been cradled by his love’s arm while their lips touched and opened and sealed together to speak of love and longing. Barard’s free hand would slide, soapy smooth, down over his chest and under the water, and Tom would curl a hand at Barard's nape to hold him close as he whimpered into the kiss and arched his back at the sure touch. 

Tom shook his head to clear this image and washed in the quickest time possible. Even though the time was short until he joined Mabdil again, food and drink had been set out for him. He drank thirstily, but his throat closed when he tried to swallow food, and he found that he could not get it down. He paced the room, tense and unhappy.

The familiar sounds of guards coming to attention heralded the arrival of the king, and Tom was standing facing the door when it was flung open and the king was announced. Elessar strode into the room, his robes of state sweeping out behind him; he nodded to Tom, and stood beside the door waiting. A moment later Pippin came hobbling through, followed by two servants carrying chairs fit for Halflings. They set the chairs down and bowed to the king, and the door closed behind them. Tom thought the old hobbit looked even older, if that were possible, and as though he hadn’t slept much. 

Tom made his obeisance, hand on breast, bowing low, and when he straightened, it was to find Elessar had knelt on one knee before him. The grave face before him was lined with the years he carried, the hair and beard heavily flecked with grey.

‘My dear Tom. Please accept my apologies.’

‘I don’t want apologies. I want to know where Barard is.’

The king nodded and stood. ‘Mabdil, help my knight, Peregrin, to be seated.’

‘No, let me,’ said Tom quickly. He hurried to Pippin, and they hugged. Pippin clung to Tom as though he were drowning. 

‘Oh, Tom, I’m glad you’re home.’

‘Come. Come and be sit down,’ said Tom, disentangling himself and helping the old hobbit to a chair. He wasn’t sure which was worse: having to clamber into a big chair, to be as dwarfed as a child, or sit on a proper-sized seat and be looked down upon from a great height. He took Pippin’s sticks while he settled the old hobbit down, and then stood until the king was seated. As Tom sat, Pippin reached out and took his hand. Tom hadn’t realised he was shaking until then. 

Elessar sighed. ‘I had hoped that I might have some good news to take the sting from the bad, Tom, but negotiations in public and private have so far proved fruitless. Barard is held as a spy in Hafar.’ 

Tom gripped the arm of the chair with his free hand and stared at the king in horror. He was lost in a muffling silence; the only sound was a great thrumming in his ears that threatened to rise up and engulf him. Pippin’s hand tightened on his, and Tom found some semblance of his voice.

‘But he will be released? They will realise their mistake?’

‘Believe me when I say we are trying every avenue of negotiation over this.’

‘Gold! They covet gold. I have gold. They can -’

‘I have more, Tom, and they will not be bought. There is more to this than meets the eye, I think.’

‘Why have they come, if not to bargain?’

‘To judge his importance, perhaps. To offer provocation to Gondor? It is hard to say. They are certainly _being_ provocative. It isn’t as though they don’t have many spies themselves in Umbar. I have offered to exchange two whom we hold awaiting trial.’

‘What will happen to Barard?’ whispered Tom. 

‘I do not know, but I will not lie to you. It is not beyond possibility that they will execute him.’

Tom wanted to curl up into a little ball, curl around the pain, but Barard was alive _now,_ and he fought to stay calm. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, feeling how cold Pippin’s hand was around his. When he opened his eyes, Elessar was observing him closely.

‘Tom, I want you to promise me that you will not try to follow Barard.’

Tom stared at him. ‘And I will be a prisoner if I refuse?’

‘No, you are free to go.’

‘So why have me waylaid?’ 

‘Two reasons. I knew that if you returned and heard any rumour of this before your friends could see you, you would not hold back your anger. The populace is seething over this, Tom. I’m not sure whether you know how well-regarded you both are. Feelings are running high, and you could be as a light to touch-paper. Trust me, violence against the Haradrim ambassadors would not help Barard. I cannot base a war on one prisoner, and in any case, that would probably seal his fate. We must keep them talking. Eventually it is to be hoped that some agreement can be reached.’

Tom tasted bile in the back of his throat. _Eventually!_ Barard might rot in jail before they came to _eventually._ He tried to keep his voice calm. ‘And the second reason?’

‘Do you promise not to go?’

Anger flared, a welcome relief from grief. ‘Of course not!’

‘No, I did not think you would. You are Sam’s son. Tell me, will you be in more danger if you can go without the Haradrim having knowledge of you - or if they have seen you stand forth as Barard’s true friend to denounce them?’

Tom relaxed back into his chair a little. Well, _that_ made sense.

‘You will be in great danger, whatever you do,’ continued Elessar. ‘And if I could in all conscience prevent you, I would. My heart will grieve to see you go, and I will have little hope of ever seeing you again. Halflings are largely unheard of in the south; another one cannot be viewed with anything but suspicion. If you will take my advice on this, I would say go in the guise of a servant.’

‘Hanril will come with me,’ said Tom with certainty. ‘He will look the part.’

‘Look it, yes, but not act it. He speaks the language, but that is not sufficient to blend into a foreign country. In any case, he is known to the Haradrim. I did not trust their interpreter to convey the nuances of what I had to say, and Hanril stood in to listen to the translation.’

‘So how can I go as a servant, with no one to serve?’

‘I have a contact...’ Elessar cleared his throat, ‘who gives me information.’

‘A spy, you mean?’

‘Thank you; yes, a spy. I must warn you that his loyalty to me is doubtful, although he misses no opportunity to tell me that he considers the present ruler in Harad a usurper.’

‘So, if caught in such company, I would immediately be imprisoned as well.’

‘Have you a better suggestion? I do not think you can simply arrive in Hafar. You could try to enter clandestinely, but it is surely better to have some role to fill. Let me say again, I would much rather you did not go at all, but,’ he looked at Pippin, ‘I am aware I would have to lock you in prison or tie you up in a sack to prevent you.’

Pippin gave a bark of laughter. ‘Well remembered, Strider,’ he said, and the king smiled for the first time.

‘My heart misgives me this time, as well, but I will remember Gandalf’s counsel: to trust in friendship rather than great wisdom.’

Pippin squeezed Tom’s hand. ‘And I will trust in Sam’s son,’ he said. ‘You may not be the son who looks most like your father, Tom, but you are the one who reminds me of him, for all that. If anyone can bring Barard home, you can.’

Tom was grateful to Pippin for his confidence, but he knew it was a fool’s errand. The only thing to do was to take each day as it came, and at least he would be doing _something._ ‘How can I meet this... contact?’ he asked. 

‘Mabdil will bring him here this evening.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘You are free to do whatever you wish.’

‘I wish to go home.’ 

‘I will send Hanril to you. You look tired. Pippin is my guest here at the moment, and you are welcome to stay with him if you would like the company.’

Pippin nodded his concurrence. ‘I would like that, Tom.’

Elessar stood, and Tom followed him to his feet, helping Pippin to stand as he did so. It was a rote: the king stood, everyone stood; Tom didn’t have to think about it. It gave an appearance of control, and he was grateful for that, because control was as thin as a veil of gossamer. Elessar looked down at him, pity in his grey eyes. ‘I’m truly sorry that this has happened, Tom, and I take some of the blame. I will talk to you again later.’

After the king had left, Tom stood with bowed head, not able to get himself together enough to move. Pippin touched his arm.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to go, my dear,’ he said, ‘but I’m glad you are, even though I fear I’ll lose two sons. Will you come and stay with me tonight? Old Strider has given me the rooms that your father and mother occupied, where you were born.’

Tom nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

‘Good. You can give me news from the Shire later. No need to help me back. No steps. You go on, do what you need to do. Scream or punch the wall, or have a good cry. I know how I felt when I thought dear Frodo had been captured and tortured in Mordor. I was so full of fury; it’s not surprising I managed to fell a troll.’ He picked up his sticks, and all Tom could do was stare after him as he hobbled out. _Tortured!_ Nienna’s tears! He hadn’t even thought Barard might be tortured! He felt as though he were going to be sick.

‘Steady, Tom,’ said Mabdil, laying a hand on his shoulder. Tom had forgotten the captain was still present, and he jumped. He looked up and was met with kindly eyes, and a face that carried a large bruise spreading across one cheek. He stretched up a hand, and Mabdil knelt in front of him.

Tom touched the purple discolouration lightly. ‘Did I do that?’ he croaked. His throat felt tight and dry, and his voice didn’t sound like his own.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mabdil. ‘You have a hard head, and you kick like a mule, but I’m just hoping you forgive me.’

‘Oh, my friend. Of course I do.’

‘Good. Don’t forget we have a punchbag at the training ground. It’ll do you good. Come back here at sunset, and I’ll bring the Haradrim spy to see you. I’ve been fighting those scum for most of my life, and I’m beginning to think I like them even less in peace than in war. Would you like me to come with you now?’

Tom shook his head. ‘No. No, thank you.’

He walked back to the sixth circle, finding the trick was to put one foot in front of the other. When he reached the stables, he nodded to himself. At least he was functioning on some hidden level: he needed to check Legend had been taken care of, although he had been unaware that was where he’d been heading. He slipped in and found that Legend needed no further attention. The pony was bedded on deep straw, with fresh water in a bucket and a manger full of hay. His coat gleamed. All the mud had been combed from his fetlocks, and his tail was tangle-free. Tom patted him on the neck, and leant his forehead against the pony’s shoulder. A whinny from the next stall made him look up, and there was Barard’s pony. Sharp and clear, the image of Barard on his birthday came to Tom, as he leant on the rail, looking the ponies over. _My fault! This is all my fault! And I was so happy and pleased with myself. If I could go back and change one moment, that would be it._

Tom gave Legend a last pat and stumbled out, his sight blurred by tears. Somehow - one foot in front of the other - he found his way to the statue of his father and Frodo of the Ring, and sat on the plinth at their feet with head bowed. His mind had settled into a state of disbelieving shock; he felt numb, and the task ahead was impossible. One small hobbit, in a foreign country with a smattering of the language, to somehow engineer Barard’s rescue! _Please, not torture! My fault!_

He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there in despair when a shadow fell across his feet, making him look up. 

‘I’m glad I’ve found you,’ said Legolas, seating himself beside Tom. ‘I was worried about you. Hanril’s worried about you.’

‘It’s my fault,’ said Tom dully.

‘How do you cast the links in that chain, my friend?’

‘If I hadn’t bought him the pony, he wouldn’t have broken his arm, and he’d have come with me to the Shire.’

‘That is an exercise that will lead only to a sapping of the spirit. Take your eye from the arrow as you loose it, and it will fly wide. But if you wish to take that road, then there are other futures where he came to the Shire with you, and met with some fatal accident. There are many perils in this world, and the paths that lead to them are a tangle of choices.’

Tom looked up at the statue above him. ‘Dada thought he had made the wrong choices.’

‘In Cirith Ungol, you mean? And yet that was the only way, perhaps, that he and Frodo could have both come into Mordor. We may be here today only because Sam made what he perceived to be the wrong choice.’

‘How did Dada do it, Legolas? How did he rescue Frodo of the Ring from a stronghold of orcs?’

‘He put on the Ring and -’ 

‘I don’t mean that. I know that. The orcs had all fought amongst themselves and he sang a song on the stairs. I mean how did he pick himself up and just _do_ it?’

‘Well, as to that, there were many forces at work - call them chance, if you will - but I believe his love for Frodo wouldn’t allow for him _not_ to do it.’

‘I’m not a hero like my father.’

‘And yet Elessar tells me you are going to Harad, because of your love for Barard. You are your father’s son. It is what he would have done, even had he felt it was all hopeless.’

‘How did you know I feel it’s hopeless?’

‘Ah, this is where I look inscrutably Elvish, is it not? But the truth is we would not be having this conversation if you felt otherwise. You despair of ever seeing Barard again.’

‘One foot in front of the other,’ muttered Tom, despondently.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I don’t really know how I got here. I just put one foot in front of the other.’ 

‘And you’re going to keep putting one foot in front of the other? Yes, that is your father.’

Tom looked up; the statue stood over him, looking unfamiliar from this angle. ‘I wish Dada was here, but then he’d be grieving over Robin and worrying over me, so maybe best that he’s not.’ He sighed. ‘I told the king I was going home, but I’ve been putting it off. The house felt so empty earlier.’

‘Hanril is there. He didn’t want to leave, in case you came back. May I walk with you now?’

Tom nodded and stood, and they walked in silence. Legolas left him at the door, and Tom suspected he was going to tell Elessar that he’d seen Tom safely home. He felt as though he had been handed over from one keeper to another. It was good to know that Hanril was in the house, but Tom refused his offers of food and trailed slowly to his bedroom. All within was neat and tidy, no doubt a far cry from how Barard had left it when he packed. Tom could picture the chaos that would ensue from that, having seen it with his own eyes so many times. He lay down wearily on the bed, and drew Barard’s pillow close, in the vain hope that he would catch some hint of his presence, but the cover smelt only of the rose-water used by the laundry. Memories crowded in, but his mind turned back to that first day in the Shire, when he had discovered the beauty of loving Barard.

_They slipped back from the dell and into Great Smials by a little-used side door. Laughing and shushing each other, they made their way to Barard’s room. Barard locked the door behind them and leant against it, flushed and panting. Tom was suddenly filled with shyness. He held out his hand to Barard, and Barard took it and pulled him close. They shifted their feet, discovering the best fit, and kissed again with greater sureness. Tom’s heart was beating fast, and he whimpered as he ground up against Barard. Slowly it dawned on his cock-befuddled brain that he was thrusting against the cold, wet cloth of his soiled breeches. He pulled back, opening his eyes, and the sight of Barard - eyes closed, lips apart, blindly reaching for the lost warmth of his mouth - made him melt. No other word described the warm feeling that pooled at the centre of his being._

_There was no way he could refuse that entreaty, but even as his eyes fluttered closed and he leaned in again, he was reaching for the buttons on Barard’s breeches, flipping them free as his other hand cupped around Barard’s jaw. The last button came undone, and Barard thrust up against Tom’s hand. It was tempting to reach deeper, to feel Barard’s heat within the palm of his hand, but Tom wanted to see. Both hands, then, to cradle Barard’s hips and slip inside the loosened band. He pushed down, and as breeches and drawers fell around Barard’s feet, Tom slid down to his knees. Soft shirt-tails framed Barard's cock and caressed Tom’s face as he nuzzled in. With a soft sigh, Tom laid his head against Barard’s thigh and traced his fingers along the proud shaft, so hard and rigid, and yet the skin was soft beneath his exploring touch. The cock jerked as he reached the swollen tip, and he could feel Barard trembling. He had never thought of his own cock as a thing of beauty, but this was lovely. The scent of their earlier coupling, and the sound of Barard’s heavy breathing, added to Tom’s excitement; all that was needed was the taste of him. Tom took his time, savouring the moment, tracing his fingers back down with feather light touch, dipping between Barard’s thighs to cradle the tight sac. Barard whimpered, spreading his legs and tangling his fingers into Tom’s hair._

_‘Tom...’_

_Tom knelt up, his other hand wrapping around the eager cock, and gently kissed the swollen tip._

_‘Oh, Tom.’_

_His tongue lapped at leaking fluid, and without thought he engulfed Barard’s cock and took him deep. He pulled back to suckle, lost in the sensation of tongue swirling over silken smoothness, and Barard’s fingers tightened in Tom’s hair. His breathing was ragged, out of control._

_‘I’m going to... Tom!’_

_Just for a moment, Tom smiled around his captive. He took Barard deep again, and almost choked, in his inexperience, but eased back and swallowed rhythmically, glad that this was Barard’s second release that day._

_was shaking uncontrollably, and Tom pushed up to fold him in his arms. His own need was so full and urgent that he was surprised he hadn’t come himself at the moment of Barard’s orgasm. He gazed into eyes that were greener than he had ever realised and was horrified to see a tear gather on Barard’s lower lid, overspill, and trail down his face. All his own cock-driven need drained away into feelings of protection and tenderness._

_‘Barard? What is it?’_

_Barard shook his head, worrying at his lip, and lowered his eyes to avoid Tom’s gaze. It was like cold ice down Tom’s back, and that had been Barard’s doing as well, just a few months ago at Hamfast’s coming of age party._

_‘Please, love, tell me.’ Tom felt close to tears himself. If Barard had made the smallest sign that he hadn’t wanted this, Tom would have stopped in an instant. It had been... so good. Felt... so good. And now another tear was following the trail to the corner of Barard’s mouth. Tom didn’t know what to do. He’d never realised that loving another could be so complicated. He cupped Barard’s chin and brushed his lips where the tear trail ended._

_Suddenly Barard was clinging to him, head buried against his hair, voice muffled. ‘I love you, I love you, I’ve loved you forever. I just... I just wish I were your first.’_

_Tom prised him loose to stare at him in confusion. ‘My first?’_

_‘I know, I’m sorry. It was wonderful, you were wonderful. I’m being stupid. I just -’_

_‘I don’t understand.’_

_Barard’s eyes flared into anger at that. ‘I’m jealous, all right!’ he shouted and tried to pull away._

_‘But... but...’ Tom swallowed as he held on tight and tried again for coherence. ‘Who are you jealous of?’_

_‘Whoever you learnt to do that with!’ Barard collapsed into Tom’s arms; his anger was gone and his tears were back. ‘Did you call him love? Who was it? Why didn’t you tell me?’_

_Tom felt laughter bubbling within. He tried to keep it damped down, but it was no use. He choked and shook, hiccupping in his effort to speak. Barard’s furious reaction in no way abated his mirth; if anything, it added to it. He collapsed onto Barard’s bed. ‘You... you... oh, I love you. You... Took!’_

_Barard stood over him, glaring, the result very loveable as he bristled in his shirt-tails. ‘I don’t see what’s so funny. I know it’s stupid of me, but -’_

_‘But there is no one else. There’s never been anyone else. You’re my first.’_

_‘I am?’_

_‘I swear.’_

_‘You’ve never done that before?’_

_‘Never.’_

_‘Oh.’_

_‘Barard?’ Tom stretched out his hand, and Barard took it, interlacing their fingers. ‘Will you be my last? Will you be mine and love me always? Until death part us?’_

_‘Oh, Tom! I’ll love you always. Don’t let death part us.’ Barard knelt between Tom’s knees and Tom leaned down to seal the bargain._

_As they parted, Barard smiled his Tookish smile. ‘Tell me I’m a pillock.’_

_Tom gently wiped away the tear trail with his thumb. ‘You’re my pillock, and I love you.’_

_‘Mmm, you say the nicest things.’ Barard worked Tom’s breeches and drawers off together and stood to unbutton his own shirt, his gaze on Tom’s stiff cock. ‘I can’t promise I’ll be as good as you,’ he whispered._

_‘Just looking at me like that is fucking amazing,’ said Tom with heartfelt truth, and he held out his arms. He was wound tight with the wonder of it all, and took refuge in their familiar banter. ‘Have I ever told you, you look like a stoat?’ He lay back and Barard came and knelt over him, his balls brushing against Tom’s thigh as he leaned forward to run his hands up Tom’s chest. He grasped Tom’s nipples between forefingers and thumbs, and nipped them hard._

_Tom gasped and pushed up under Barard’s hands, begging for more._

_‘Ah,’ said Barard. ‘That was supposed to be a punishment.’_

_‘Oh, it was, it was, do it again!’_

_‘Tell me why I’m likened to a stoat, and I might.’_

_‘Stoats are a lovely reddish-brown above, and white below.’_

_Barard looked down at his pale skin. ‘Hmm.’_

_‘And... and they’re lithe and graceful.’_

_‘Better.’_

_‘And they’ve got pointy faces -’_

_‘I think you should have stopped on lithe and graceful.’_

_‘And they’re beautiful.’_

_‘They bite.’_

_‘Aaaah! Yes!’ Tom stretched his neck. More of that would be good, too. Who’d have thought there were so many places that sent the blood rushing to his cock and made his back arc in his need for release?_

_‘They’re insatiable killers.’_

_‘You’re... oh!... killing me!’_

_‘Hmm. Point taken, and I may turn out to be insatiable.’ Barard leant forward and gazed into Tom’s eyes. ‘Do you mind if I don’t try that mouth thing this time? I’ve wanted this so long, wanted to watch you come. I didn’t dare tell you before.’_

_For answer, Tom took Barard’s hand, pushing it down between them, and with a whimper of relief gave himself up into Barard’s keeping, now and forever._

Tom wrapped his arms tight around the pillow and gave himself up to his grief, sobbing until he was retching on the tightness in his throat. Rocking his body, he twisted his hands into the pillow while the darkness in his mind gave welcome relief from the images of Barard tortured and broken. He had no idea how long he had lain there, when arms lifted him and turned him, and he clung to he knew not which friend.

‘Hush, little master. Enough, enough. You cannot keep this up. Shhh. Shhh. Enough. This will not help Barard.’ 

‘Hanril,’ he whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. You needed that, I think. But now you need to get up and eat something for Barard’s sake, and see the Southron for Barard’s sake. Here, drink this.’

Tom obediently took the proffered glass, although his hand shook. ‘Ugh, that’s vile. What is it?’

‘A concoction of my grandmother’s. A calmative and restorative. There’s water to wash your face, and food is ready for you. Don’t even think you’re going anywhere without eating something. And I’m going to come with you, to make sure there are no mistakes from misinterpretation.’ 

‘Prince Faramir once told my father that he was a pert servant,’ said Tom.

‘Meaning I am? I didn’t know your father was a servant. I thought he was rich, an important burgher in your home Shire.’

Tom pulled himself to his feet without explaining; explaining was too much effort. He looked in the mirror, and his reflection stared back through dark brown eyes that were red-rimmed. It was not a good sight. The darkness of his unruly hair contrasted against the paleness of his face; all his normal colour seemed to have drained away. ‘Barard says I look like a gypsy,’ he said.

‘The way your skin takes the sun makes you look a little like a Southron,’ said Hanril. ‘Or you do normally, when you aren’t so pale. That may help you now. Make you less conspicuous. You could pass as a child, until someone looks into your face - or at your feet.’ 

‘The servants before you treated us as though we were children.’

‘They must have been blind; although, to be fair, your voices are childlike to our ears.’ 

‘When I come back from the Shire, it takes me a while to get used to the voices of men around me, they are so deep.’ 

‘I like the sound of your voices, and I wonder sometimes what hobbit children must sound like. Like birds in the branches of the trees, maybe.’

‘You should have been a hobbit, Hanril.’

‘I am honoured. Why?’

‘The art of inconsequential chat in the face of great upheavals. “Sitting on the edge of ruin and discussing the pleasures of the table.”’

‘Speaking of which, little master, food is ready.’

‘I don’t think I can eat anything.’

‘Little master, you will eat something.’

Tom washed his face. He felt drained. It had been an indulgence to give way when so much needed to be done, As he reached for the towel, he suddenly realised he had started to plan ahead. Legolas would be a good choice to take charge of their wills - two for each of them, in Gondorian and Shire forms - since the Elf could travel to the Shire and give them to Frodo and Faramir. He came to a halt as he pondered whether to send letters now, or to just leave them with the wills. The latter was tempting, but the Mayor and Thain deserved to know how matters stood, and so be forewarned before news of the worst sort reached them. He would ask Elessar to appoint a trustee with control of their money in the meantime, and make sure Hanril continued to receive his salary. He was glad they’d had the foresight to leave their servant a handsome legacy; it would not diminish the large fortune they had left for their families, and it was one thing less to worry about now. 

He ate under Hanril’s gaze, his mind on other matters. ‘Will you look after Pippin?’ 

‘Yes, of course. That didn’t need asking.’

Tom nodded and moved onto the next problem. ‘I need to make arrangements for Legend and the chestnut mare.’ 

‘Melyanna.’

‘What?’ But he had understood; he just needed a moment to try to put it to one side. 

‘Melyanna. Her name is Melyanna, and Legolas is planning to take them both under his care.’

‘Good.’ _Love-gift! Oh, Barard!_ He pushed his plate aside and rubbed his palm over his face. _Think of something else!_ ‘Do you know anything about this man we’re to see, Hanril?’

‘No, little master.’

’It's time we went, I think.’

They walked in silence up to the seventh level, Hanril slowing his step so that he didn’t outpace Tom. One of Mabdil’s men was standing outside the room, and as Hanril opened the door, Tom waved his servant to go in ahead of him. He himself paused and tilted his head up to meet the guard’s eye.

‘I’m sorry I kicked you earlier,’ he said. 

The man rubbed his jaw. ‘I’m sorry we had to do it, but orders is orders.’ Tom nodded and followed Hanril in time to hear a voice speaking the common tongue, but heavily accented.

‘I was told you was small, so small. I see they joke with me.’

For a moment Tom could not see the speaker, but then Hanril stepped aside and bowed to Tom. Tom just had time to register eyes widening, whites showing brightly against skin darker than Hanril’s, and then the Southron put back his head and laughed. Tom waited patiently; it was a reaction not altogether unfamiliar. The man was much shorter than Hanril or Mabdil, more the height of the men of Bree, but still very tall to a hobbit. His hair was black, longer than worn in any of the northern lands except Dunland, and plaited into two braids. Gold thread was wound into the plaits, and gold rings adorned his ears - piercing through his flesh in the way of women - but there was no paint on him. The last rather disappointed Tom after Mabdil’s description of painted heathen. The man was dressed Gondorian style, and Tom guessed the hooded cloak the man wore had been drawn close as he moved around the city. Presumably he had no wish to be seen by his countrymen.

The Southron had his laugh out, and Tom waited for him to finish before bowing, hand on breast. ‘Tolman Gardner at your service,‘ he said. 

‘Oh, the joke is on me? Yes?’ said the Southron, looking at Mabdil. ‘What is this? An imp?’ 

Tom straightened, and despite his anger, almost laughed at Hanril and Mabdil’s reaction. They were as close as men could get to stiff-legged dogs with their hackles raised. He was surprised they weren’t growling. 

‘I am a hobbit, a Halfling,’ he said into the silence that was almost palpable. ‘King Elessar has suggested you might be able to help me travel to Hafar and find my way around once there. If you are not prepared to do this, say so now, and I can stop wasting my time here.’

‘Such haste! Do I say I not helping you? No! I think not. My name is Mehos. From the goodness of my heart, I help you.’

‘And a large purse from the King!’ growled Mabdil. ‘And do not forget that far more will be paid to you if you help him home again.’

Tom looked at Mabdil. It did not seem prudent to say _but I will not return, if the returning is alone._ If Mehos was motivated by money, then telling him part of his fee was almost certainly unattainable might be a dangerous thing to do. ‘Leave us, my friend. You too, Hanril,’ he said. ‘I will speak with Mehos alone.’ Mabdil and Hanril started to protest, but Tom held up his hand. ‘Leave us!’

Grumbling, the men left, and Tom turned his attention back to Mehos who was eyeing him thoughtfully. ‘Please, be seated,’ said Tom, indicating the pair of large, comfortable armchairs. He himself sat on the arm of the second chair, with his feet on the seat, so that he was on eye level with the Southron. 

Mehos met his gaze, a hint of amusement back in the quirk of his mouth. He scratched the back of his head, picking at something that annoyed him, rather than the thoughtful head scratching that Barard went in for. Tom hoped the man didn’t carry lice if they were to travel together.

‘So. Men obey you. This you wish for me to see?’

‘Yes, partly,’ said Tom. ‘But I also think you will not now be tempted to speak to my friends rather than to me, as adults do over a child’s head.’

‘You are no child.’

‘I am older than you, I judge, but you still find it hard to take me seriously.’

The man shrugged. ‘Is there need? I take you. Act your master. Dangerous for me, if you are known to be...’ He searched for a word.

‘... look for friend, look for spy,’ said Tom in the man’s own language. 

Mehos roared with laughter. ‘Well, well,’ he said, speaking slowly in his native tongue. ‘That is something. It would not do for me to be speaking to you in the words of the northern lands, once we are home.’

Tom followed enough to understand the man’s meaning, and could make a good guess at the unknown words. ‘When you leave?’ he asked, but the answer was quicker, and the words flowed into each other so that he lost the sense. ‘I’m sorry. I can only understand you if you speak more slowly.’ The man nodded and followed Tom back into Westron.

‘Tomorrow. Yes?’

‘Good. What should I wear?’

‘No matter, yet. In Umbar you can buy at market, then travel on. Meet me at the - what you say? - Harlond at the sun’s rising. If you are not there, I go without.’

Tom nodded. The sooner the better. ‘Thank you, Mehos. I will be there.’

The man had hardly stepped out of the room before Hanril was back, carefully closing the door behind him. ‘I do not trust him, little master.’

Tom ran his hands through his hair. ‘Neither do I, but I don’t have a better plan. Will you pack for me? Not much, just bare essentials, and a money pouch I can wear close. My knives, of course, but not my sword; I can’t hide that. I’ll be with Pippin when you’ve finished.’

Pippin was pleased to see him, hugging him close. They both had tears in their eyes as they parted, but spoke only of practical matters. They dined together, and talked quietly of the Shire. 

‘Robin was a good hobbit,’ said Pippin. 

Tom nodded and wondered what they would say of himself. ‘Have you a writing case here?’ he asked. ‘I forgot to ask Hanril to bring me mine, and I need to write to Frodo and Faramir.’ 

He wrote late into the evening, wishing he were a quicker scribe and that words behaved better for him. He stopped only to trim the candles on the desk where he worked, until Pippin laid a hand on his shoulder. 

‘Hanril is going to help me to take a bath, my lad,’ he said. ‘You’re worn out. Go to bed, but be sure to wake me in the morning.’ 

Tom shook his head. ‘I need to finish these. They’re hard letters to write.’

’It’s a hard way to say goodbye.’

Tom bowed his head. ‘Yes. Yes, it is. I wish there was time to write to them all, Elanor and Rosie, and all of them. I’m glad I saw them a few weeks ago.’ He rubbed his face. The last thing he needed was for his tears to make the ink run so that he had to start again. They both looked up at a soft knock on the door, expecting Hanril saying Pippin’s bath was ready, but it was Elessar who entered, followed by Legolas. Tom jumped to his feet, ready to bow, but the king waved his hand.

‘Be at ease, Tom, Pippin,’ he said. ‘Let us be friends together. Legolas has been keeping me company as I fret at the constraints of state.’

‘It is hard to delight in entertaining such as the Haradrim,’ said Legolas. ‘They are cruel men, I deem.’

‘And yet there are men of honour in the kingdoms of Harad,’ said Elessar, pulling off his sword of state and laying it aside. He sat with a sigh. ‘Or there were. When I was there, long years ago, the remnants of the House of the Sun, and those loyal to them, were persecuted and driven south.’ He looked up at Legolas. ‘Are you going to cradle that wine until the stars fall from the sky?’

Legolas unfolded his arms from his cloak, and produced a dark bottle of wine from Lebennin. The cork had already been pulled, and then forced partly back in again. ‘Have you glasses, Pippin? Our good friend has touched only water all evening, and is a little testy as a result. I’m not sure if it was a wish to avoid drinking with our visitors, or because he knew what inferior wine was being served.’

‘There is no inferior wine at my table.’

‘Well, it was not your best. _This_ is your best. Thank you, Tom.’ Legolas poured wine into the glasses Tom set out. He handed them round and raised his own. ‘May the Valar guide you and guard you, Tom, and may you find Barard, and return to gladden our hearts.’

‘And may you be blessed with your fair share of Gamgee luck,’ added Pippin, his voice quavering more than usual. 

‘Sit down, Good-Father,’ said Tom, taking his elbow. 

Pippin shook his head and patted Tom’s hand. ‘Here’s Hanril. I’ll see you later. My Lord, Legolas.’

Tom kissed the old hobbit and watched him leave. If the impossible happened, and he returned with Barard, what chance was there that Pippin would still be alive to rejoice in it? He forced his mind away from thoughts of Barard, and turned to the king. ‘What is the House of the Sun?’ he asked.

Elessar settled back into his chair and sipped his wine. ‘Harad used to be a confederation of small kingdoms, but the head of the House of the Sun was the high king. How successful it was always depended on the strength of the high king to hold them together, but the lesser kings always acted as his council. I sometimes wonder if all the wars against Gondor were not more about keeping peace at home, diverting the lesser kings away from internal squabbling.’

‘And now?’ asked Tom, accepting more wine from Legolas.

‘Now? Sauron threw his weight behind another house that arose to challenge the order of things. The kingdoms have gone, along with their kings, and the high king takes counsel from no man. By the time Sauron was unmade, the grip on the country was so tight that no change was possible. The king then was Cyros, but it is his son now, Daros. He is a weaker man, and unpopular, by all accounts, but he has been full of conciliatory overtures to Gondor. He wants to trade, but cannot do so easily without the friendship of Gondor and our port of Umbar.’

Tom nodded. The last he knew well; it had formed the basis for their decision to travel to Harad. He drained his second glass, the deep red wine warm and spicy on his tongue. It carried the promise of oblivion, of griefs drowned deep. He pushed his glass towards Legolas.

‘Nay, my friend,’ said Legolas. ‘We brought but the one bottle. That is not the way to face the night, more so since you have an early start tomorrow.’

‘Will you not change your mind, Tom?’ asked Elessar, but not as though he expected anything other than the vehement shake of the head Tom gave him. ‘No, I thought not, but I promised Arwen I would ask one more time. She sends her love to you, and asks you to take heart from words of her father: “This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must.’”

‘I don’t want to move the wheels of the world.’

‘Maybe not, but you have as much chance as anyone of finding some way to rescue Barard.’

Tom kept his own counsel. As much chance, yes, and that was so small that the end seemed clear to him. Be that as it may, he was determined to continue putting one foot in front of the other until that small chance became no chance.

‘I see you take little comfort from Arwen’s words,’ said Elessar into the silence. ‘And it seems we interrupted you. We will keep you company while you finish your letters, and make sure they are delivered.’

Pippin returned just as Tom finished sealing the last letter. He was in time to see Tom hand over the wills to Legolas, and the letters to the king. Elessar knelt to hug Tom, and there were tears in his eyes as he said goodbye. Legolas bent down and kissed him on the brow. _‘Namárië,’_ he said softly, a hand on Tom’s shoulder, and then there was just Pippin left. The old hobbit laid aside his walking sticks to hold out his arms unencumbered, and Tom stepped into the hug with a sob. This all seemed so final, so very final. 

‘You are like a son to me,’ murmured Pippin, and suddenly Tom could hold back no more. He wept on Pippin’s shoulder, trying desperately not to lean his weight against the frail form, trying to comfort as well as to be comforted. By the time the fit passed, Tom was exhausted and glad to be chivvied to bed by Pippin. Sleep did not come easily, though. He was tormented by dreams of Barard, dreams in which Barard was tortured and abused, and cried out Tom’s name. Normally, Barard would speak his name in bantering lightness or husky desire; cried out - yes, that frequently, pleading and begging, to pitch Tom into a frenzy of need - but never like this, never in anguish and despair. His Barard, of the quicksilver movement and laughing eyes, caged, confined, broken…

He did not even realise he was standing until Pippin’s touch brought him to himself.

‘Tom?’ The voice sounded hesitant, and Tom blinked in the candlelight that dazzled him. His throat felt tight and sore, and his jaw ached. Dimly, he remembered he had been screaming his anger and grief. Slowly, he released his clenched hands, feeling the smart in his palms where his nails had dug in, and looked into Pippin’s worried face. It took Pippin a long time to get moving from his bed, his joints at their worst after a period of rest. Gradually Tom’s gaze was drawn to the wreckage of the room around him: hangings pulled down, pottery smashed. Somewhere a door slammed, and Hanril’s voice could be heard calling.

‘In here!’ answered Pippin.

‘You rang for me... oh.’ Hanril’s eyes widened, but he didn’t ask what had happened. ‘Don’t move! I’ll get a broom.’ He disappeared at a run, and Tom looked down at Pippin’s feet. The Took must have crossed the broken shards to reach him, but the only blood appeared to be his own.

‘Tom?’ said Pippin again, and Tom looked up to meet eyes that were old and full of sadness. ‘Oh, Tom. No, don’t move, you’ll cut yourself again. Hanril’s here; just let him sweep up, and then we can have a look at that foot.’ 

Tom blinked again; he hadn’t heard Hanril come back. He realised he must have missed something else, because Pippin was talking.

‘ - thought he was having a nightmare until I opened the door and a vase smashed into the frame by my head.’

Hanril swept the debris into a corner out of the way, and wrapped a blanket around Tom. ‘I’ll get some warm water; the fires should be lit in the kitchens by now. I’ll ask for some breakfast to be prepared for you both. There’s no point his going back to bed now, assuming he’s fit to travel.’ 

‘Tom, come and sit down. Hanril, can you get him to move?’

Tom allowed himself to be steered to a chair. Pippin sat next to him and took his hand. ‘Tom, look at me. Good lad. Now, for Eru’s sake, say something.’

Tom struggled out of his dazed state. It was tempting not to bother - pain of loss was waiting for him outside this little cocoon of nothingness - but he knew it was somehow important. He could feel Pippin’s hands, cold around his. 

‘Your hands are cold,’ he said, and the tightness of Pippin’s grip relaxed a little.

‘So are yours. You’re shivering.’ 

Tom looked around the wreck of the room. ‘I... I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, I don’t think there was anything here of sentimental value to anyone.’

‘I meant, sorry to... to disturb you. Sorry I dragged you from your bed.’

‘I wasn’t asleep. You’ve made me feel quite sprightly; I didn’t know I could put on such a turn of speed, and I’ve learnt some colourful new swear words. Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘I don’t remember anything. I had a nightmare, and then... then you were here. Did I do all this?’

‘No one else. You were shouting and swearing. Angry doesn’t begin to describe it.’

Hanril came back then with warm water to wash the blood from Tom’s foot. ‘A small cut,’ he said, looking up at Tom as he knelt at his feet. ‘It will heal quickly, but is it wise to travel so soon?’

It was Pippin who answered. ‘And do you think that he will be better served by having nothing to do except think of Barard? For my part, I would like to keep him by my side, but that is no more than selfishness. The Southron will not delay his return, and Tom should go with him.’

‘But yesterday was exhausting for my master; it is no wonder he -’

Tom cleared his throat. ‘When you two have finished talking about me as though I’m not here, you might like to know there is no question hanging over this journey. I am going, so I hope you have everything ready, Hanril.’

‘But little master -’

‘Hanril!’

‘Yes, sir, everything is ready.’ 

The “sir” meant Hanril was not happy, and Tom slipped from his seat to hug him as he still knelt. ‘Thank you, Hanril. For all your kindnesses, past and present. You have been a devoted servant.’

‘That is not hard, when the masters are of the best.’ Hanril stood up. ‘If you are determined to go now, come and eat while I saddle Legend.’

Tom and Pippin said little as they broke fast together. Their parting embrace was long and tearful. Pippin kissed him, and Tom wiped the tears away from the face that reminded him so sharply of his Barard. The parting from Hanril was no less emotional, and Tom was glad when it was over and he could ride from the city in the faint light of dawn. The guards called a greeting to him as he wound his way down through each level, but they did not try to stop him, and he just waved a hand as he passed. 

It was short ride to the Harlond, no more than a league, and he left Legend at the inn by the city wall. The pony was not impressed at finding he was being left. ‘You behave,’ said Tom, patting his neck. ‘If I don’t come home, Legolas will take you to the Shire.’ He shrugged on his pack, slung the leather strap of his water-skin over his shoulder, and made his way through the gate and down onto the quayside. Here, the wall cut off all view of the city behind, and across the river were the heights of the Emyn Arnen. The hills, towering above the river, looked like a lonely outpost of the white mountains, and the overall effect was to make him feel very small as he looked around. There was a bustle of activity around two boats, but one was a barge, and he walked on past to the second. By the lines of her, she was a fast craft, and that pleased him. Some soldiers were boarding, no doubt destined for the garrison at Umbar, and that pleased him as well. He didn’t recognise any of them, but they would still be familiar company on the journey. He couldn’t see Mehos at first, until a shadow separated from the warehouses along the base of the wall, and became a hooded and cloaked figure.

‘Good. Let us board. Carry my bag.’

‘I’m not your servant yet, Mehos.’

The man shrugged and picked up his belongings. Together they boarded, and Mehos went straight to their shared berth and stayed there, out of sight until they were well on their way. Tom, however, stayed on deck, taking care not to be a nuisance as he watched the final preparations to sail. The wind was from the north, and the sails were being raised with no need for oars. The soldiers were laughing, and Tom guessed that they would have been expected to help row the boat down the great river, had it proved necessary. He didn’t understand much about sailing, but enough to know that it was not the sunrise that was important in the timing of their leaving, but the turning of the tide. The sails filled, and moorings were cast free. Slowly at first, they started to move, and the strong breeze whipped Tom’s hair about his face. A sail flapped and was quietened by a sailor tightening a rope, and then a rhythmical _lap lap_ started beneath the bow. Tom watched the wake widening behind them, and from there he raised his eyes to watch Minas Tirith gradually appear beyond the wall. The light increased around him, and the high tiers of the city and the fair Tower of Ecthelion were touched with a pink glow. Faintly, carried on the breeze, came the sounds of silver trumpets, and Tom knew the flags would be unfurling along the wall of the seventh level. 

Tears came to his eyes at the thought that this was very likely the last time he would look upon the city he loved. He turned resolutely and walked to the prow. Fertile flood plains spread out to either side, and gulls called above. He tilted his head up to watch them flying free, and felt the sun warm his face. 

_‘I am going to find you, my love,’ he thought. ‘Even if it’s the last thing I do.’_


	4. Chapter 4

The sea journey was a difficult time for Tom. There was too much time to brood on what Barard might be suffering, and his thoughts went round and round, doubt and self-blame his constant companions. He spent the first day withdrawn and listless, and did not sleep well at night. He lay listening to the calls of the look out and Mehos snoring, and ached for Barard’s warmth in his arms. 

The next morning he remained curled in his bunk, shunning company, but he roused himself for the noon meal, recognising the need to take some care of himself. Afterwards, he sat in the sun and made pretence of watching the soldiers at sword drill. In reality, he barely noticed them. His thoughts were far away in a foreign land. Barard, alone and scared, was almost more than he could bear to think of, but what if he were beaten and abused, tortured? There was nothing Tom could do about it, except feel guilty that he was free to be warmed by the sun when Barard was not. If Barard’s letter was any guide, he must have been in prison for three months already, had possibly been there as Robin lay dying. Three months! Tom hugged his knees close, buried his face in the circle of his arms, and blinked back his tears. His grief for Robin threaded through his grief for Barard, and seemed to be worsening with time, but at least he’d been with Robin when he died; Barard might die alone - might be dead already - _because_ Tom had been with Robin. 

_‘That is an exercise that will lead only to a sapping of the spirit, Tom. Take your eye from the arrow as you loose it, and it will fly wide.’_

Tom rubbed his face against his sleeve, and lifted his head. He half-expected to see Legolas standing there, looking gravely down at him, but there were only the cries of gulls wheeling above and the barked commands of the drill sergeant. It had been a small pleasure to find the sergeant was known to him, but the men were relatively new recruits, who had never even seen a Halfling before. Tom forced himself to watch them with a critical eye. They really weren’t very good. 

‘Pah!’ said the sergeant, throwing his hands up in disgust. ‘You’re a bunch of sheep-herders. Do you want to be a laughing stock? A Halfling could do better!’ He turned and winked at Tom. 

‘I’d like to see him try,’ muttered one of the men, who had come in for a particularly severe verbal lashing. 

‘Well, now. A little wager, maybe,’ said the sergeant, and Tom couldn’t help laughing, despite everything. 

‘Don’t tease them, Damlûk,’ he said, pushing up onto his feet. ‘I don’t mind defending the reputation of Halflings - and in truth, I would welcome the exercise - but I’m not going to line your pockets. Have you got a long knife I can use as a sword? I don’t have mine.’ 

Damlûk lifted the lid of an iron-bound chest that stood below the main mast and pulled out a long knife; there was no scabbard. The haft was a little thicker than Tom was comfortable with, and he took a few moments to get a feel for the grip and balance of the blade. The watching men jeered a little at his awkwardness. Tom glanced at Damlûk, who was grinning, and settled into the resting position: right foot forward, left foot back and the blade tip resting on the deck close to his right instep. It was a position that called for care, taking into consideration his bare feet. There was a slight tilt to the deck, as well, despite the fact they were running smoothly before the wind, and he compensated by standing with his feet a little wider apart than usual. He went through the familiar movements - variations of cut, thrust and parry - and finished with a salute: blade straight up, hilt just above his shoulder, elbow tucked in. On Damlûk’s command, he dropped the blade forward as he straightened his arm. 

‘Now,’ bellowed the sergeant, ‘ _that’s_ how I want to see it done! Attention!’ Tom slipped onto the end of the line, making sure he was out of sword range of the man next to him, and went through the drill again, enjoying the stretch on his muscles and the chance not to think. Normally he would be damp with sweat after an hour’s drill, but the breeze kept him dry. He was glad of the water ration handed out at the end, however, and he was sitting on the chest drinking it when Mehos joined him. 

‘You liked, yes?’ 

‘Yes, I did. I often drill with the Tower Guard at home. I enjoy the exercise, and it keeps me in practice.’ 

‘Ah, but practice like that is not fighting, no? You not really fight man. He...’ Mehos searched for the word he was looking for, and then indicated the length of his arm. 

‘Would outreach me?’ 

‘Yes, yes, that is it. He would out reach you.’ 

‘I wouldn’t like to try and better Damlûk, but I might be able to surprise some of these men.’ 

‘How is that?’ 

Tom smiled at Mehos. ‘They would underestimate me, and they would not guard themselves well. I’m quick on my feet, even though I’m older.’ 

‘Older and wiser, heh?’ 

‘Maybe. More experienced, anyway.’ 

‘These not good soldiers.’ 

‘But they will be. The King likes to train them with his best troops.’ 

‘So, his best troops, they are in Umbar?’ 

Tom shrugged and looked at Mehos thoughtfully. He wondered whether the man was just curious, or if he gathered information for other masters than the king. Time to change the subject, anyway. ‘Will you help me with your language?’ he asked. ‘The more I speak it, the easier it will become.’ 

Mehos scratched at his head, returning Tom’s gaze. His answer was to give Tom a series of curt instructions in Southron. 

‘Not what I had in mind,’ said Tom, understanding him, but not acting on the commands. 

‘You will not be convincing slave,’ said Mehos. 

‘Whoa! Who said anything about “slave”? I’m to be your servant.’ 

Mehos shrugged. ‘No servants, only slaves. I know metal-smith in Umbar who will make collar for you.’ 

Tom stared at the man, wondering if he were joking. ‘Now just a minute -’ 

Mehos stood up, his eyes flashing. ‘No, you “just a minute.” If you are thought to be spy, how long before master is arrested, heh? All slaves wear collar. How can I say you my slave, if you no have collar?’ 

‘A metal collar?’ 

‘Yes. Like I say.’ 

Tom swallowed. He was liking this less and less, but the Southron had a point if what he said was true. He suddenly remembered what his da had told him. ‘My father saw one of your soldiers once,’ he said, omitting to say the man had been dead. ‘He was wearing a gold collar.’ 

‘He was leader, then. High up. Important. Doing the king’s will, and so his slave, yes?’ 

Tom finished his water, gave the metal cup to one of the soldiers, and walked over to Damlûk, who stood looking out over the widening river. He joined the sergeant, reaching up to lean his elbows on the side of the boat; he was just of a height to rest his chin on his hands. The water was racing by, giving the illusion of speed, but the bank was hardly moving as they slowly made way over the incoming tide. Ahead was the Bay of Belfalas and the open sea. Tom followed Damlûk’s gaze and saw the pilot rowing out to meet them, to guide them safely through the sandbanks and shoals at the mouths of the Anduin. 

‘Mehos says there are no servants in Harad, only slaves, and they wear metal collars,’ said Tom. He glanced up to see Damlûk’s reaction. 

‘Is that so?’ said the soldier. 

‘You don’t know if it’s true, then?’ 

Damlûk spat into the water that foamed out from the bows to form the wake. ‘I can believe it,’ he said. ‘As long as he isn’t suggesting that you should wear - ’ The man’s eyes widened. ‘Tom! No!’ 

Tom gazed out into the distance where a group of sails were beating up the bay past the isle of Tolfalas: fishermen, he guessed, heading for the port of Linhir. They had the wind against them, but the flooding tide would be helping them in. 

‘I have to get to Hafar, and I can’t just ride up and knock at the gate, can I?’ 

‘Even so...’ 

‘If it’s true, then I can’t see any way round it. I can hardly pretend to be a distant relation of his. I can’t see why Mehos would lie over this, but...’ He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Southron was nowhere close. ‘I don’t trust him. King Elessar suggested I go as a servant, so he must have believed that was possible.’ 

‘If you ask my opinion, the only good Haradrim are dead Haradrim,’ said Damlûk, as though that settled the matter. ‘I’m sorry about Barard.’ 

Tom rested his forehead on his hands, hit by a wave of grief, and felt Damlûk’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Tom, are you all right?’ 

‘Yes, I’m fine. The sun is rather bright on the water. It’s hurting my eyes.’ 

‘I understand. Go and sit down. I’ll bring you something stronger to drink.’ 

Tom shook his head. ‘No, I’ll stay here.’ 

The banks of the Anduin were disappearing into the distance now, and the pilot was on board. Most of the sandbanks were hidden by the high tide, and ripples and small waves curling on the surface of the water were the only sign of treacherous shallows below. It looked like one great expanse of sea, opening out into the Bay of Belfalas, but if they strayed even a little out of the deep water channel, they would be aground. A sailor stood near the prow, swinging the lead, but his call was never less than two fathoms; the pilot was guiding them well. 

‘Two fathoms!’ 

Tom watched the man haul in the rope, coiling it expertly as the lead came dripping up from the water. By concentrating on the sailor’s task he could avoid thinking about Barard, dulling his pain by following each small action that built up to the whole: a soothing repetition. He watched the man bring his arm back and swing the lead forward, the rope snaking out after it as coil after coil unwound. The lead flew true, hitting the water some way ahead with a faint splash. As they sailed up to it, the rope hung straight down, plumb-lining down to the estuary bed, and the sailor called out the depth. Already, he was coiling in again, ready for the next throw. 

‘Two and a half fathoms!’ 

Again. 

‘Three fathoms!’ 

The sailor hauled the rope in for the last time, and suddenly there was a flurry of activity on board. The sails were sheeted in, and the boat started to list as she picked up speed on her new course. They were tacking out to sea. The journey south had begun. 

Tom had seen enough. He made his way to his cabin, staggering slightly with the unfamiliar movement. The wind appeared to have strengthened, and it whipped his hair about his face. The sounds had changed, as well: there was a lap lap of water beneath the boat’s prow, and the rigging was creaking as the ropes took up the strain. In the small cabin he shared with Mehos, Tom threw himself face down on the bottom bunk and buried his face in his arms. Even as misery flooded through him, he spared a thought for their families. He, Barard and Robin had been the babies, indulged by older siblings and running wild. Now Robin had gone, and he and Barard might not be long in following. 

Within the darkness he had made, he remembered what had been.

_He and Barard pushed back their chairs from the table in the Great Smials’ dining hall. They had come late to breakfast, and apart from Robin, the room was deserted._

_‘Where are you going?’ asked Robin, jumping up. ‘I’ll come with you.’_

_Tom and Barard exchanged glances; they had made love in haste the previous evening, but that was too long ago, and they were desperate for each other’s touch. The Gardner family’s summer visit to Great Smials would end all too soon, and then what would they do? Every moment together was precious; it might be Yule before they could see each other again._

_Tom cleared his throat. ‘Erm, sorry, Robin. We... we’re...’_

_‘We’ve got things to do,’ said Barard._

_Tom nodded. ‘I’d have thought you’d be off chasing after Angelica,’ he added, rather sourly. He’d been hurt and annoyed at Robin’s new preoccupation with girls - right up until his own startling discovery that skirts didn’t appeal to him, and Barard was everything._

_Robin shrugged. ‘She was rude about Da. Said he was an upstart gardener, and that we had no right to live at Bag End.’ Tom stared at his brother in disbelief, but Barard laughed and rolled his eyes._

_‘Of course she did, you pillock. The lovely Miss Chubb’s grandmother was a Baggins, and the widow of Folco Boffin. He was Frodo of the Ring’s second cousin, and his closest relation on his father’s side. If Bag End hadn’t been willed to your father - if there’d been no will - she’d probably be living there now.’ Barard looked from brother to brother. ‘What?’_

_Tom shut his mouth and grinned. Barard could always be relied upon to know things._

_‘So what are you two up to, anyway?’ Robin asked, steering the conversation back to where they’d started. ‘Why’ve you both gone red? You’re up to something, aren’t you?’ His eyes widened, and he gave a low whistle. ‘You’re chasing skirt yourselves! Oh, I can’t believe any lass would look twice at you two tricksters; you must have dropped a frog down the back of every dress from here to Hobbiton!’_

_‘Well, you’re wrong,’ said Barard, and Tom thought, Neat!_

_‘Hey! This I’ve got to see.’ Robin jumped up, laughing. ‘I’ll come with you, and give you the benefit of my experience.’_

_‘No, no,’ said Tom. ‘Don’t trouble yourself.’_

_‘We can manage by ourselves,’ added Barard, patting Robin’s shoulder, and Tom nearly choked. They sauntered out, but as soon as they were through the door, they ran. Barard’s room was not to be thought of - a maid would be in to tidy it at some point during the morning - so they raced each other outside, laughing as they skidded through a side door and out into the sunshine. Barard, taller and rangier despite being younger, reached the dell first. In the moments it took Tom to follow him through the undergrowth, Barard had fetched up against the wide bole of a tree, hands behind his head and one leg negligently bent so that his sole rested against the rough bark. Only his heightened colour, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, gave away the fact he’d been running.He smiled and freed his hands to hold his arms out to Tom._

_Tom slowed, getting his breath back, and feeling as though the sight of Barard were a physical blow that left him dizzy and weak at the knees. He stepped into arms that curled around his waist, and took possession of Barard’s mouth while his hands ranged freely across the fine cotton of Barard’s shirt. They were too breathless from running to deepen the kiss, and they parted to rest forehead to forehead and gaze into each other’s eyes._

_‘I can’t bear to be apart from you,’ whispered Barard. ‘I was awake all night wanting you.’_

_Tom groaned as Barard’s hand slid between them, caressing his cock through the cord of his breeches. ‘Me, too. I want you in my bed.’_

_Barard turned his head to nip Tom’s ear lobe with his teeth. He laughed - a deep throaty sound that sent shivers down Tom’s spine - and took a handful of breeches around willing heat. ‘I wasn’t talking to you, short arse. I was talking to your impressive and very handsome cock.’ As suddenly as it had come, his laughter died. ‘I wish you didn’t have to share a room with Robin. I wish you could come and share my room. I wish we could tell Robin, and then he could cover for us.’_

_Tom’s fingers were busy, even as Tom’s mind was considering what Barard was saying. He had bypassed the buttons of Barard’s shirt as irrelevant and gone straight for those on his breeches. ‘Is this wrong?’ he asked. ‘Is what we’re doing wrong?’ Then, at the sight of Barard’s expression, ‘No. NO! I don’t mean I think it’s wrong.’ He slipped his hand into the warm depths and stroked Barard’s cock with his thumb to reassure him. ‘You’re mine, Barard, always, whatever anyone else thinks.’_

_Barard had sagged slightly against the tree. ‘Don’t scare me like that, Tom,’ he whispered. ‘I thought you meant... I thought you were going to tell me we had to stop this. I don’t know how I’m going to bear it when you have to go home. This is so right. How can it be wrong?’_

_‘Maybe we should tell Robin.’_

_‘And risk his telling? I can’t even begin to guess what the reaction would be. Father would probably tan my hide and forbid our seeing each other. Have you ever heard of lads loving each other like this? Well, have you?’_

_‘Maybe there’s something wrong with us?’_

_‘I don’t ever want to be any different.’_

_‘Mmmm.’ Tom’s hand closed around Barard’s cock, dragging back the soft skin, and Barard whimpered. It was a small sound that overwhelmed Tom with feelings of love and a fierce desire to protect Barard from anything that might harm him. However much he might crave this physical contact, what he felt was love of a much deeper kind. He smoothed his thumb around swollen tip, mapping the feel and shape. ‘I don’t want you any different, either,’ he whispered as he rolled his weight against Barard’s hip to give himself better access to stroke and tease. Barard whimpered again, and his head fell back against the tree. The sight of his neck stretched back, inviting Tom to feast on warm skin that pulsed with life, was somehow intensely arousing. Tom leant in to take the offering, and shifted slightly to bring some welcome pressure on his own cock. His eyes fluttered shut, and in the darkness his other senses were heightened. His world was bounded by suckling warmth, and by cock thrusting into his encircling fingers, by his own slow grind, and by hands clutching him - urging more, urging harder, urging faster, urging rougher. Barard’s body arched against him as he obeyed, close so close..._

_A twig snapped, and they both jerked upright, eyes flying open to stare at each other in horror._

_‘What are you two doing?’_

_Robin! Only the fact that he would leave Barard exposed prevented Tom from jumping round to face his brother. How could they have been so stupid as to believe Robin wouldn’t try to follow them!_

_‘By the Lady, you two must be desperate if you’re resorting to cock-teasing each other.’_

_Tom adjusted Barard’s breeches, and Barard slipped shaking hands between them to fasten the buttons. Tom’s heart was thumping painfully, and the pulse in Barard’s neck told the same tale. Shit! He turned slowly and glared at his brother, who was almost doubled up in laughter. He wondered whether there was any point in jumping Robin and beating him to a pulp, with the threat of more to come if he told, or whether that wouldn’t simply end up with them in even worse trouble. He glanced at Barard, who had come to stand at his side. Well, he was the older; if Robin told on them, he would try and divert the blame to himself by claiming culpability._

_It was Barard who broke the awkward silence. ‘He wasn’t cock-teasing me, you pillock,’ he said - not angrily, just telling Robin how it was. ‘He was fucking well making love to me.’ He looked at Tom and smiled, and just like that, Tom knew Barard was right: whatever the consequences, they couldn’t deny what they felt about each other. He smiled back, and they linked hands and kissed. It was barely more than a light brush of lips, tender and comforting, but when they turned to Robin he was looking at them in shock._

_Slowly his shock faded into a nervous laugh. ‘Very funny. Ha bloody ha! Now stop farting about, and admit you’re just a couple of sad bastards who can’t get a girl to look twice at you.’_

_‘And what are you going to do if we don’t?’ asked Tom quietly, and felt Barard’s fingers tighten against his._

_‘What do you mean, “what am I going to do?”’_

_‘Are you going to tell Da or Frodo?’_

_‘What! That you’ve been jerking off together, playing with each other’s cocks like a couple of little kids? Course not, what do you take me for? Now, will you stop holding hands like... like...’ He looked back and forth between them, and his expression was one of disgust. ‘Like one of you’s a girl.’_

_‘Do you promise not to tell?’_

_‘What’s got into you two?’_

_‘Do you promise?’_

_‘Yes, all right! I promise, but I wouldn’t have said anything, anyway!’_

_Barard half-collapsed against Tom in relief, and Tom took him in his arms while keeping eye contact with his brother. ‘Thank you, Robin,’ he said._

_‘So are you going to answer my question? What has got into you two?’_

_Tom was wondering how to answer, and it was Barard again who showed the way. He laid the palm of one hand against Tom’s chest. ‘I love him,’ he said simply._

_Tom covered the hand with his own. ‘We love each other.’_

_Robin stared at them in disbelief. ‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘You... you can’t!’ Suddenly he was gone, crashing through the undergrowth. Tom and Barard stared at each other._

_‘Shit,’ said Tom. He turned Barard round to brush lichen off his shirt. He had no desire to resume their interrupted lovemaking, and it seemed that neither had Barard._

_‘Had we better go after him?’_

_‘I think we’d better go back, anyway.’_

_Slowly they trailed back to the smial. Tom felt sick and apprehensive. He trusted Robin, really he did, he was - had been? - a good friend to both of them, but his reaction had filled Tom with disquiet. At home, he and Robin were almost inseparable, and in Tuckborough, Barard had always been with them, once he had been old enough to keep up with them, that is, and could be relied upon not to fall over and start crying._

_They went by the main door - it was, after all, the more direct way to go - but they were waylaid by two more of Tom’s brothers._

_‘What have you got to say for yourselves?’ asked Bilbo, an aggressive note in his voice. Tom and Barard looked at each other in panic._

_‘What have you done to upset Robin?’ added Hamfast, in the face of their silence. ‘Come on, out with it. I’ve never seen him in such a taking. All he’d tell us is that he’d been with you two.’_

_‘He... we... we had a misunderstanding,’ said Tom._

_‘And I was rude about Angelica,’ added Barard quickly._

_‘Oh, well, that’s not difficult,’ said Bilbo, relaxing a little. ‘You two aren’t punishing him for not having time for you these last few weeks, are you?’_

_‘Oh, no. We want to find him now. Do you know where he is?’_

_‘Gone to your room,’ said Ham. ‘For goodness’ sake, whatever it is you’ve done to upset him, patch it up. Come on, Bil. We’re not going to get the truth out of them. They’ll just have to sort it out themselves.’ He and Bilbo sauntered off._

_Barard looked at Tom. ‘That was so far beyond shit I may never get the stains out of my trousers,’ he said with feeling. Tom hiccupped, and suddenly they were leaning against each other quite helpless with laughter._

_‘Come on,’ said Tom, reluctantly letting go of Barard. ‘Older brothers are a fucking pain. Let’s go and find Robin, and see if we can at least make him understand.’_

_Robin was indeed in the bedroom, face down on his bed, his shoulders shaking. Tom sat beside him and laid a hand on his back. ‘Robin? Will you talk to us? Are you angry with us? We can’t help how we feel.’_

_Robin lifted a tear-stained face. ‘You won’t want me any more,’ he said. ‘You won’t have time for me.’_

_‘We thought... we thought maybe you wouldn’t want to be with us any more,’ said Barard. ‘You looked -’_

_‘You looked like we were something disgusting that had crawled out from under a stone,’ said Tom. ‘You looked like you were going to be sick.’ He felt sick himself at the memory._

_Robin stared at them, shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can want to love each other like that.’ He swallowed. ‘You reminded me of Ellie and Fastred; you just seem to belong together. You really mean it, don’t you?’_

_Barard sat down hard on Tom’s bed and flopped over backwards to the accompaniment of springs protesting loudly. Tom took a deep breath and let it out on a great sigh of relief. ‘Yes, we really mean it. I’m sorry we fobbed you off this morning. We just... it’s hard to be together, like that anyway, and... Well, I’m sorry.’_

_‘Why don’t you just go to his room at night?’ asked Robin._

_‘Because you... because...’_

_Robin pushed himself up and grinned at him. ‘Because I’d know?’_

_Tom nodded, and Barard made a strange noise, a strangled squeak._

_‘Well, here’s the deal. You let me go around with you in the day, and I’ll cover for you at night - if anyone even notices you’re not here, that is.’_

_Tom wrapped his arms around his brother and hugged him hard, speechless with gratitude._

_Robin struggled free. ‘Hey! Let me up, you wanker. If either of you kisses me, the deal’s off!’_

_Tom felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Barard standing over them, his eyes overly bright. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Robin,’ he said._

_‘Yeh, well. You owe me one. Maybe you can find me a girl.’_

They had. They’d found him Éowyn, as different from the frills and furbelows of Angelica as it was possible to be. And now she was a widow, and knew this terrible emptiness as well as Tom did. He rolled over, throwing his arm across his eyes. 

‘Here, here. I brought you drink. I am sorry if I upset you.’ 

Tom rubbed his arm over his face, before letting it fall to look up at Mehos. The man was leaning one hand against the top bunk to steady himself against the dip and sway of the boat, and holding out a flask of wine in the other. 

‘That’s kind of you, Mehos.’ Tom hoped he wasn’t showing his irritation; he just wanted to be alone with his memories. ‘But the last time I drank some wine, I... I wasn’t well.’ 

‘Oh. More for me,’ said Mehos, taking a swig. ‘No worries about being slave. I will be good master, yes? And if you keep shirt on, you will not need brand.’ 

The boat dipped again, and Tom’s stomach went with it. He felt suddenly queasy. ‘Brand?’ 

‘Yes, yes. Slaves is branded. On the shoulder.’ He winked. ‘Keep your shirt on. Better? Yes?’ 

Tom swallowed. ‘I think... I think I’m going to be sick.’ 

‘Silly to come down here. Go up on deck. Have something to eat. Feel better.’ 

Somehow Tom doubted it, but he found that Mehos was right: food and fresh air settled his nausea. They sat together below the mast, as the sun set and the sky darkened, and spoke together in a mix of Westron and Southron. Mehos, beyond Tom’s expectation, proved a good teacher, and as the days passed, the talk was more in Southron. Occasionally Mehos would bark out a command, and expect Tom to obey it to show he understood, but Tom realised that the man had a point if they were to make a successful pretence. 

‘I will call you Tolmos,’ said Mehos one day as he sat scratching at the back of his head. They were nearly three weeks into their journey, and had glimpsed a barren land that morning, before tacking out to sea again. The captain assured them that they were well down the coast towards Umbar. ‘Tolmos is a good name, yes? It means “small bird”, like your Robin. Are all families as large as yours? You must breed like mongrels in the market.’ 

Tom sighed inwardly. Mehos kept wrong-footing him, like an opponent making a feint of going one way, but then lunging the other. In the middle of an otherwise friendly conversation, he would suddenly make a comment that was downright offensive. Tom swallowed an angry reply and sought for the word he needed. ‘No, it... rare?’ 

Mehos nodded at the choice of word, but made no other comment, and Tom decided that it was time he learnt something in turn. 

‘Tell to me of your family,’ he said. It helped pass the time, but it was hard work getting much from Mehos of a personal nature. Tom learnt that his parents and brothers were dead, that he had been recruited as a spy in Umbar after he had given a drunken tirade against the high king in the marketplace, and that he was born in the city of Hafar. It was not much. 

By the time they made landfall again, Tom’d had enough of trying to talk to Mehos. He leant on the side of the boat, watching gulls flock in their wake as the cook threw scraps of fish heads and bones overboard, and he jumped when the ship’s captain touched him on the shoulder. Tom looked up, and the captain pointed forward. They were rounding a rocky headland, and Tom stared at the sight that met his eyes. An immense fortress rose sheer from the water, and at its feet a sea wall curved out into the sea. 

‘Umbar,’ said the captain, rather unnecessarily. ‘Built by the Númenoreans,’ he added. Tom nodded; he knew that as well, and that Gondor had only retaken it from the Haradrim ten years before, after the Haradrim had launched a large scale attack by land and sea. His knowledge of its history was hazy - that was the sort of thing Barard was good at - but he did know it had been fought over many times, and had been in the hands of the Haradrim for much of the Third Age. With its capture, Gondor had taken back supremacy of the sea, and the first peaceful overtures for trade had come soon afterwards from Hafar. 

‘Mehos tells me that slaves wear metal collars in Harad,’ said Tom. ‘Do you know if that’s true?’ 

‘Well, we don’t see any now, not since King Elessar banned the Haradrim from importing their slaves through Umbar, but I remember seeing them in the past. Yes, they wore collars.’ He spat overboard. ‘They’re a barbaric people.’ 

They were interrupted by a soldier, bringing a message for Tom. ‘It’s that heathen. He’s getting very agitated, and he wants to see you below. He didn’t say please nor thank you, neither.’ 

Tom took a last look at the great harbour, thronged with boats, which was appearing through a gap in the seawall, and regretfully hurried to see what Mehos wanted. 

Mehos grabbed him as soon as he set foot in their cabin, and pushed the door shut behind him. Tom straightened his shirt where Mehos had pulled it askew, and tried to hide his anger. ‘What’s the idea, Mehos?’ he asked. 

‘We stay out of sight,’ said Mehos, answering Tom’s Westron with Southron. 

‘Why? This is a Gondorian outpost. What's the danger?’ 

‘There are many Haradrim living here,’ said Mehos. ‘We must not be seen arriving on a boat bringing soldiers from Gondor. We will wait out of sight until it is well after dark, and then we will go ashore. Safest for me, and safest for you once we’ve left your friends behind.’ 

‘All right. Have it your way.’ Tom understood, he just couldn’t be bothered to match language. Westron seemed like an old friend he was about to lose. 

Tom sat down to wait, looking with interest at what Mehos was wearing: a full-length, white - dress? He didn't know what else to call it. It was buttoned down the front, and gathered at the waist with a golden belt. A deep blue robe hung open over the top, matching a blue border on the hem of the dress, and on his feet were leather sandals. The clothes were a little creased, naturally, but the effect was still very imposing. 

The wait seemed interminable. He guessed they had passed within the shelter of the harbour wall when the pitching of the boat over the swell of the waves died away. A voice could be heard shouting orders, and a slight bump heralded the moment of arrival. Damlûk came to wish him well, and after he had gone, Tom lay down to doze. He had slept badly throughout the journey, and he felt tired and out of sorts. Food was brought to them, but it was the inevitable ships rations when Tom had looked forward to a good meal in an inn. 

They disembarked in darkness. This time Tom did not demur from carrying Mehos’s bag, but it was awkward, the handles being too long for a hobbit to carry comfortably. There were torches burning along the quayside, set in sconces on the high sea wall that enclosed the harbour. By their flickering light, Tom could see many boats, their masts standing straight and bare, and their sails furled. The way into the town was protected by huge doors and a guardhouse, but a guard stepped forward and silently opened a small door within the larger to let them pass through. Tom presumed that Damlûk had spoken of them, and also of the need to avoid drawing attention to their arrival. Beyond the gateway was a large open square, and what Tom could see of the buildings was very reminiscent of Minas Tirith. They slipped into a dark alley, and Mehos looked quickly around before knocking on a door. There was not much to see; the darkness was almost complete. The narrowness of the way shut out the stars, and twice Tom tripped on uneven flags. Mehos appeared to have felt his way to their destination. 

The door opened, spilling light across the alley, and Tom followed Mehos into the spicy warmth of a large kitchen. He set down the bag, and stretched his fingers to ease the marks where the handles had dug into his palm. Mehos was greeting a Southron who was dressed as any cook in Gondor might be; he did not introduce Tom, and the man looked down at Tom with his eyebrows raised. 

‘Oh, that,’ said Mehos carelessly. ‘A new slave. A bargain, although they tried pricing him high for his novelty value. Ridiculous. He doesn’t have the first idea of how to behave. Between you and me, I think they were glad to be rid of him. Look at him now, gazing round the room, instead of looking at the floor as is proper when waiting on his master.’ 

Tom took the hint and hastily studied his toes. 

‘What is he?’ 

‘Some sort of imp from the north. The Eye knows how he came to be in southern Harad, and he doesn’t have enough of the language for me to ask him.’ 

‘You know your business, my friend, but I would say the bargain was a poor one.’ 

‘Time will tell, time will tell. It was no more than I was prepared to lose in gaming. I think he will shape up; he seems willing - when he understands what it is I want - and he can always be sent for a flogging if he gives me trouble.’ 

‘I sometimes think it is imps they have given me,’ said the cook. ‘And I do not have recourse to a whip.’ 

Mehos laughed. ‘But the pay is good, yes?’ 

‘Oh, yes, these Gondorian hawks pay well, otherwise I would not stay.’ 

‘Can you feed us now?’ 

‘Of course, if you don’t mind reheated leftovers.’ 

Tom’s stomach rumbled, and the cook laughed. ‘I think your imp understands that he‘ll be fed.’ 

The food was unfamiliar to Tom. There was yellow rice with seed pods mixed amongst it, and when Tom bit on one the flavour was sharp and green; it was topped with a creamy mix with pieces of chicken. He could have happily eaten more, but only Mehos was offered a second helping. 

Tom did not understand all the conversation; sometimes it was too fast, and sometimes there were words he did not understand, although he could mostly hazard a guess. He gathered they were in an inn, and this turned out to be the case when the cook led them through a deserted taproom and up to an attic. There were two beds, but it soon became apparent that this was also the cook’s room. 

‘I’m sorry, there is nowhere to send your slave; he will have to stay here and sleep on the floor,’ said the man. It was very obvious that he was apologising to Mehos for the inconvenience of sharing with a slave, not to Tom for having to sleep so uncomfortably. There was no bedding roll for him; he was simply expected to curl up on the floor with a threadbare blanket. 

He barely slept, and was happy to rise at first cockcrow. They broke fast in the kitchen and left by the side door. Tom suspected that the inn’s owner was unaware he had fed and sheltered two extra guests. Mehos looked around the alley again, deserted apart from a rather mangy-looking cat. ‘You will need clothes and a pony,’ he said, ‘and you cannot be seen to have the money to buy them. I will leave you at the blacksmith’s while I find what is needful for our journey, but it is best if you give me money now.’ 

Tom considered this. He did not like the idea of handing money over, but there did not seem any way around it. He felt under his shirt for his money belt and handed over a few silver coins. Mehos nodded. ‘Good, yes, that should be enough. This way.’ 

Tom was not surprised to find the blacksmith was another Southron. He was smaller than Mehos, although as dark, and his hair was tied back at his nape. He wore baggy trousers that were gathered at his ankles, but his upper body was covered by only a leather apron. As early as it was, his forge was already alight, and the air shimmered around it. Later in the day it would be unbearably hot, but maybe that was why the blacksmith made such an early start. Two horses stood outside waiting to be reshod; there was no sign of their owners. 

The man shook his head when Mehos made his request for a collar to be fitted around Tom’s neck. ‘Trouble for me,’ he said. 

‘No trouble,’ answered Mehos. ‘None have seen him to know he did not arrive wearing a collar, and we will be gone within an hour or so.’ Tom remembered to look down as the two men haggled out a price; it seemed clear to him that the blacksmith’s reluctance had more to do with getting the best remuneration that he could, rather than real fear of reprisals. 

The bargain struck, Tom was taken into a small side room. ‘Wait here,’ said Mehos. He lowered his voice. ‘I do not know if you followed all that was said. He does not want the responsibility of your running away while I am gone, and he insists that I chain you. I tried to persuade him that you were to be trusted, and would give no trouble. I think he is foolish in this; if a soldier sees you chained there will be trouble for him.’ He shrugged. ‘Not for you and me, except in drawing attention to us, since I’m trusting you to get me out of trouble with the Gondorians, if necessary.’ 

Tom nodded. ‘Of course.’ He swallowed nervously and held out his wrist. Mehos snapped a metal band around it and chained Tom to a ring in the wall. The ring was too high and the chain too short to allow Tom to sit, and he leaned his head against the rough brick wall. The metal was cold against his skin. _Oh, Barard, are you chained? Are you even still alive? He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. If this is what I have to do to find you, then I’ll do it._ No doubt the blacksmith would think he wept for his lost freedom. 

It was a while until the man reappeared, carrying a band of brass in a pair of tongs. He set it down and left without a word, returning with a hot iron, a ladle of water and a collar of thick leather. He said no word to Tom, simply slipping the leather around his neck. The ring followed, and the man pushed the back of Tom’s head to make him drop it forward. Tom felt the air heat around the hot iron, but the leather protected his skin; there was a hiss of steam, and cold water trickled down the back of his shirt. He gagged a little on the tightness, but when the blacksmith removed the leather, the feeling eased. 

It was not long before Mehos returned to release him. He checked the ring, slipping his fingers between it and Tom’s neck, and nodded in approval. ‘Here,’ he said, and handed over drab cotton trousers the colour of sand. They were not unlike those worn by the blacksmith. Tom shed his travel stained clothes, donned the trousers, and took a white over-garment that Mehos held out to him. It had no buttons, and Tom pulled it over his head. It came almost to his knees, but the seams at the side were open from the hips down to allow for movement. 

‘They good fit,’ he said. They would be loose and cool in the heat of Hafar. 

Mehos held out his hand at Tom’s height. ‘I showed the man how tall you were,’ he said. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a light scarf. ‘Now wrap that round your neck until we are in Harad. Otherwise some officious busybody will want to free you.’ 

Back by the forge, Mehos handed coins over to the smith, and Tom wondered with grim humour what the man would say if he realised the slave had paid for his own collar. 

‘I have packs for the horses, Tolmos,’ said Mehos, turning to Tom. ‘Transfer everything from my bag, and then we can be on our way.’ Tom was glad to obey. The sooner he got to Hafar, the sooner he could try to get some news of Barard. When he took their packs outside, he found “horses” was stretching the truth. One was a fine thoroughbred mare, but standing beside her was a mule with a pannier on either side of its saddle. It looked at Tom with an evil eye, and tried to kick him. He folded his discarded clothes into his pack and placed it into one of the panniers, rearranging some of the food he found there to even the load. It took him a little longer to arrange Mehos’s belongings, and when he looked up, Mehos was talking to an ill-favoured Southron. They were far enough away that Tom could hear nothing of the conversation, but the unknown man glanced his way, and immediately looked away when he caught Tom’s eye. Money changed hands, and the man rode away in some haste. 

‘What that about?’ asked Tom when Mehos joined him. 

Mehos fussed around his horse, checking the girth. ‘I sent a message ahead to prepare my house.’ 

Tom stared at him. ‘We there as quick, yes?’ 

‘I doubt it, not with that mule. I considered the expense worth it to find my house habitable.’ 

They rode out past a profusion of colour and noise which was the market, and up a long winding street to more gates standing open in a wide arch. Tom rode his mule just behind the mare, and kept his eyes lowered to avoid a soldier’s exclaiming at a Halfling riding out of the city. 

Their way ran alongside a river bordered by prosperous-looking farms, but each farmhouse looked like a small fortress. When Tom asked Mehos about this, he shrugged and said that war had frequently swept across the land. While there were farms, they bought milk and meat, but they were well stocked with food, and as the land became poorer they used their own supplies. By the time that Mehos said they were leaving Umbar and entering Harad, the land had turned to semi-desert. From then on they took turns to keep watch at night. 

Tom pulled his pack from the mule as they set up camp, and wondered if it was possible to hate at first sight; the beast had not improved on acquaintance, and he was sick of its stubborn ways. It didn’t seem to react in the way of a horse. ‘What danger we watch for?’ he asked. 

‘The wolves of the desert,’ answered Mehos scratching his head in the now familiar gesture. ‘Brigands. We are not likely to attract their attention, travelling light as we are, but you never know.’ When it was Tom’s turn to watch, he sat wrapped in blankets, gazing up at the stars. It was cold at night, and the stars shone and glittered. It was good to see Dada’s star, Eärendil, looking down on him, and he was comforted by the familiar constellations. He and Barard had often lain out under the stars, making ridiculous shapes out of the points of light that were splashed across the heavens as though at the flick of a brush. 

As they approached Hafar, the land became more rocky. They halted on a height, and Mehos pointed into the distance. It took Tom some time to make out a city on a hill, maybe two day’s journey away. In the distance, a range of mountains ran in a northerly direction, climbing up from low foothills in the south to peaks high enough to be capped with snow. It was on the most southerly and lowest hill that the city stood, seeming to shimmer in and out of view. Hafar! 

That night Tom’s sleep became even more erratic as he worried and fretted over Barard. ‘Stop tossing and turning, imp,’ grumbled Mehos during one of his watches. ‘I might as well make you sit up all night for all the sleep you get.’ 

It might have been better so. Tom slipped from waking agonies over Barard, to dreams, to abrupt wakefulness again as his mule gave its odd whinny come bray. _Whinee-aw ah aw._ He flung back his blankets, instinctively reaching for his knives, and was in time to see several shadowy shapes closing in. Each second slowed, stretched, while his mind raced on many levels. _How many? Shit! I’m surrounded. Where’s Mehos…_ One straightened, and he clearly saw Mehos lying face down in a crumpled heap, even though it was a glimpse measured by a heartbeat. _Two between me and the mule. One knife each. Barard, I love you._ He came up into a crouch, knives at the ready, poised and ready to jump into whatever opening presented itself. _Did I ever tell you? How much I love you?_

He took aim, but staggered as something crashed into the side of his head. Light and pain flared briefly into being, filling his whole world. He toppled sideways, and darkness welcomed him into its all encompassing embrace. 


	5. Chapter 5

Pain filled Tom’s world. His head hurt, throbbing skin and blinding headache merging so that he was not sure which was which. Not only that; his shoulder was on fire, making him cry out. A memory of having already woken to searing pain and his own voice screaming was a tenuous thread that he couldn’t hold; it slipped away in his confusion, and it was easiest to just let it go. Through the pain he was aware that he was lying face down on some hard surface and being jolted up and down. Each movement jarred through him, escalating the pain into an agony so intense that he was in danger of swooning. He tried to move his hands to cradle his head, but found that he could not. He groaned and rolled onto his side, accompanied by a dragging sensation and a clinking as of metal against metal.

He heard a young voice, answered by a woman’s, but he couldn’t bring the words into any semblance of meaning. Metal clinked again, and water dripped onto the corner of his mouth. He turned his head further, opening his parched lips to blindly seek it out, and a thin stream trickled onto his tongue. He swallowed instinctively and opened his lips for more. 

Voices again, and he struggled to make sense of them. 

‘Be careful! You do not know what he is - some wild creature, maybe.’

‘Mother, he wears a collar. He’s a slave like us, that’s all.’

Tom tried to open his eyes, but everything was blurred, and the light was a stabbing pain. He groaned again; it was all he could manage. At least the jolting had stopped.

‘Can you hear me? Lie still. They are coming to salve your wounds. It will hurt, but it will keep them clean.’

Tom thought, _It can’t hurt any more,_ but he was wrong. Something was smeared roughly on his temple and the back of his shoulder. He cried out and fell into welcome oblivion.

_Pain!_

He was awake, then. With a groan, he tried to push himself up, and a hand cupped his elbow, supporting him. He forced his eyes open. The light was not so bright, and he squinted at the dark-skinned face that swam before him. Gradually it resolved into that of a boy approaching manhood. His face was narrow, the nose seeming to fall in a straight line from between black eyebrows set wide, and his brown eyes gazed at Tom in concern. It took Tom a moment to realise that the strangeness of the face was due to the lack of any hair to frame it. The boy was completely bald. 

Feeling the drag against free movement again, Tom looked down. His wrists and ankles were bound with metal, and a chain ran between each manacle. 

‘I’m sorry; I can’t help you more,’ said the boy, and Tom realised that he was similarly restrained. ‘If you can manage to sit by me, I can support you.’

‘I can crawl.’ Tom’s words were a croak.

The boy frowned and looked over his shoulder. ‘He doesn’t speak our language! How can I help him?’

Tom hunted down the words he needed. ‘I... crawl.’

‘Oh. Good. Over here.’

They were in some sort of open wagon, with benches running down each side, and an awning to give some shade. From the swaying, they were moving again, but at least the jolting had stopped. Tom half crawled, half dragged himself over, and with the boy’s help managed to pull himself up and collapse into a sitting position. He started slipping sideways, his head lolling, feeling sick and dizzy, but his new friend propped him up. 

‘I’ll sit next to you here, and you can lean against me. My name is Catos. Can you drink?’

A cup was held to Tom’s lips, and he drank thirstily.

‘Good. What’s your name?’

’Tolmos.’

‘I thought you were going to die, Tolmos.’

Tom groaned. ‘Not yet. I need... know.’

‘I don’t understand, but don’t worry, you’ll be all right now.’

‘Hurt.’

‘I know. I saw them. They gave you nothing for the pain.’ The boy sounded upset. ‘It wasn’t like that for me - I barely remember.’

‘Remember?’

‘Being branded. How did you come to have a collar and no brand?’

‘Catos! Leave the creature alone! You’re always talking.’

Tom closed his eyes and thankfully accepted the support he was given. He could make little sense of what had happened, what was happening, but he had no hesitation in trusting Catos. The boy was much taller than Tom; he slipped one arm over Tom’s head, taking care to avoid his wounds, and encircled Tom’s chest with his arms. ‘There, you won’t fall now. I’m sorry if I talk too much.’

Tom didn’t have the strength to say, _No, it’s fine, I like your talking._

He drifted in and out of consciousness, and each waking was a little easier. It was difficult to judge how much time had passed; the pain was as bad, but he could think more clearly and sit without falling. He felt scared, lost, but the arm wrapped firmly around him was reassuring in a world of unknowns. With difficulty, he raised his head and opened his eyes. The light was fading towards evening, no longer bright enough to hurt, but the movement of the world outside the cart made his nausea return; he half closed his eyes and leant his head against the boy’s solid body. Looking at the course weave of the sage-coloured cotton tunic Catos wore was more restful. Tom shifted a little, trying to ease his discomfort. So many questions. He struggled to remember the right words to get the answers he needed.

‘Where we go?’

‘To the slave market in Hafar.’

Tom sighed in relief. Slave market was bad, but Hafar was good. At least he was heading in the right direction. The chain between the boy’s wrists was cold against his skin, and he realised that he himself was bare from the waist up. He still wore his sand-coloured trousers, but his tunic had gone, along with his knives and his money belt. His head felt strange, quite apart from the throbbing pain, and he bent his neck so that he could reach to explore his scalp with his fingers.

‘In case of lice,’ said Catos. ‘That’s why they shaved us. How old are you? I’m fifteen.’

‘Fifty-three.’

‘You’re joking! Mother, he says he’s fifty-three! I think that knock on his head has scrambled his brains.’

‘I told you he wasn’t a child. Look at his face, look at his chest. Maybe he’s gelded; he’s smooth enough. That can stunt the growth, but I’ve never seen a eunuch _that_ small.’

‘And you’ve seen a few, no doubt.’

‘Impudent child!’

For the first time, Tom made an effort to see the other speaker. He peered around Catos, and found that the wagon or cart was made of two sections. In the front sat a woman, a veil across her lower face, but her eyes met his boldly. ‘What are you, little bird?’ she asked. ‘Are you hung like a man?’ 

Tom leaned back weakly and glanced up at Catos. ‘Your _mother?’_ he asked.

‘Oh, no! That would be a hardship indeed! _The_ mother. You know.’

Tom didn’t know; he gave up trying to understand and shifted to try and ease the pain in his shoulder. In his mind, he heard himself screaming again, and this time the memory came with the foul stench of burnt flesh. With no warning, he folded over Catos’s arm and voided the water from his stomach. 

‘That’s nice, that is. He takes one look at me and throws up. Me, that used to be the favourite in the harem. My master would have kept me into my old age, but he died, and his son’s a thankless dog. So here I am...’

Tom stopped trying to understand what she was saying and let her tirade wash over him. And she had accused Catos of talking too much! He started to shiver. ‘I sorry,’ he said. At least he had missed the boy’s feet. 

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get some sand when we stop. How long have you been a slave?’

‘How long I with you?’

‘Since yesterday.’

‘Oh. Two days.’

‘What! You’re a freeman!’

‘I think I no more a free... man.’

‘But there are laws. Can you prove it? You can go to the courts.’

‘And a lot of good that did your grandfather,’ cackled the woman. 

‘Yes, well, that was in war, because he supported the House of the Sun; my father explained it to me. But Tolmos has just been... kidnapped!’

‘Yah, yah, yah,’ said the woman. Bangles chimed, and Tom could imagine the dismissive wave of the hand. He didn’t think he could have put it better himself.

Amidst shouts, they came to a halt. For Tom, it was just a confused noise and a kaleidoscope of colours moving around him. There was no point in even thinking of escape: he could barely stand. He probably ought to be lying down. Catos helped him from the wagon and supported him while he relieved himself, and Tom was so far past caring that he found no embarrassment in that. He sat where he was put and accepted food when it was held to his mouth. One of his captors came and poked at him with a stick, but his words were too fast and complicated for Tom to follow. He stared stupidly up at the man.

‘He doesn’t speak our language,’ said Catos. ‘Just a few words.’

‘Pah!’ said the man. He dropped two blankets on the ground and walked away. Night was falling, and it was getting cold. Tom shivered; with nothing on his upper body, he was losing heat rapidly.

‘We’ll be better off back in the cart,’ said Catos. It was a struggle to get back in, and Tom wondered at the boy’s care for him. From his limited experience of the Haradrim, kindness seemed in short supply. He tried to wrap the blanket around himself, but Catos stayed his hand. ‘Like this,’ he said. He put both blankets together and then tucked one edge under Tom. He squirmed in beside him, trapping the opposite edge under his own body. ‘Don’t struggle. This will be much warmer. My little brother and I always did this to keep warm.’

There was a catch in the boy’s voice as he hugged Tom closer, and Tom had a sudden glimpse of what it meant to be a slave: your family could be lost as easily as a handshake in the market over a yearling steer. Tom let the tension go from his body and accepted the close embrace. Their chains were caught between them, and the wood floor was rough against the side of Tom’s chest, but he barely noticed; most of his mind was given over to pain. The comfort of being held helped him bear it, and he sought for other ways to distract his mind.

‘Tell to me of your brother.’

‘He’s eight years old - about your size. I look - looked after him. Our mother died, and I looked after him. Now... now...’ Catos gave a sob. ‘Now I may never see him again.’

‘I sorry.’

They lay quietly for a while, and then the boy sniffed. ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

‘Six brothers, six sisters, but one brother died soon ago.’

‘You mean “recently”, I think. Do you miss him?’

‘Very much.’

‘Are they normal size?’

‘Yes, all same as me.’

Catos giggled at that, as Tom had hoped he would. ‘Silly, you’re not normal size, not if you’re fifty-three, though I’m not sure I believe that. Are you a dwarf? I’ve heard of dwarves in stories.’

‘No, I not dwarf, but I have meet many dwarves. Little more tall, little more wide, lot of hair.’

‘You’ve met dwarves! I never believed they really existed. But what _are_ you?’ He tensed. ‘You’re not an _imp,_ are you?’

‘What is _imp?_ I called so, since here I come.’

‘Imps are trouble. They make mischief. They come from somewhere far in the north and live in holes. In stories, anyway. They are very small. _I_ don’t think they really exist.’

‘Ah,’ said Tom, and wondered how hobbits had ever entered Southron tradition. Of course, there was Barard’s great-great-great Uncle Hildifons: despite the many tales told round the fire at Great Smials, no one had ever known what happened to him. If the stories Catos had been told were based on a Took, it was not surprising that hobbits had the reputation for being trouble. ‘Well, I _hobbit._ Men in north call we _Halflings.’_

Catos giggled again. ‘You are funny. “Call _us_ Halfthings.”’

Tom smiled, both at the giggle and at being called a halfthing. Catos would have no idea how insulting that sounded, the words being meaningless to him. It was the sort of thing that Mehos might have said deliberately. At the thought of Mehos, his smile faded, and in its wake the pain worsened. In his judgement, the man had a cruel streak in him, but he had shown Tom some consideration, and now he was almost certainly dead. He had looked dead, lying there in the moonlight. Tom shifted, and hissed in pain.

‘Poor Tolmos. Shall I tell you a story? That always helped Minos when he was hurt.’

‘Your brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘I like that.’ And he did, even though he didn’t follow it very well. Some boy had gone into a cave to escape his wicked uncle who wanted all his money. The boy had found a golden coin that he rubbed, and a magician had appeared to grant him three wishes. Tom never heard how it ended. He drifted into sleep, wishing he had such a magician to call upon. 

He slept fitfully, trying not to disturb Catos with his restlessness. In the morning he felt a little better, but he lost his balance when he tried to stand. Catos caught him before he fell, and helped him sit. He brought Tom dried meat and water, persuaded the slave traders to allow him to be the one to salve Tom’s wounds, and chatted to him endlessly about his brother. Tom was filled with compassion, not only for Catos, who sought to fill a void in his life, but also for the small brother who had been left behind. He touched the boy’s hand. ‘Thank you. You very kind.’

‘I wish I had some hot water to clean your wounds. I’m sorry I hurt you.’

‘Me fine.’ 

‘No, you’re not.’ Catos sat beside him and slipped an arm around him again as they started moving. Tom was glad of the support. He realised there was another cart carrying men. So - he was counted with the women and children; well, there was a lot to be thankful for in that. The future was a great unknown, but for the moment he felt relatively safe. The slave traders left him alone, and Catos was full of care for him.

They travelled through a landscape of red rocks cut by gullies, the cart swaying and jolting as they followed a rough track. There was little vegetation, and where plants clung to ledges and crevices, they had a dull and listless look about them. Tom had to concentrate hard to stop the world blurring around him, and that in turn worsened his headache. He closed his eyes and thought of Barard. 

Possibly he slept, because the next thing he knew the sun was high in the sky, and they were entering Hafar through a great arched gateway in a high defensive wall. Tom blinked and peered around. Talk of painted heathen and other disparaging comments by Mabdil and Damlûk had left him half-expecting primitive huts, but the reality was very different. He stared about him like a peasant. Houses lined a wide street thronged with people, and facades were painted in bright colours, blues and deep reds predominating, with patterns in gold bordering arches whose sole purpose was decoration. Round columns were frequently repeated, and again many appeared to be simply decorative. Most houses had gold statues standing on either side of the front doorway, and he caught glimpses of interiors patterned with murals or mosaics. Much of the city was on a level, but about half a league away rose the high hill he had seen from a distance, and beyond, the red mountains rose to dwarf the hill into insignificance. The hill itself rose steeply at its summit and was crowned with a great hall that seemed to grow from the rock. It was not the size of the building nor its precarious position that had Tom craning his neck to see, but the large golden dome that scattered the light of the midday sun into a dazzling radiance. 

Just the knowledge that he might be close to Barard was enough to set Tom’s heart racing, but there seemed little point in asking Catos where prisoners might be held; the boy was as awestruck as Tom, and had clearly never been to Hafar before. Looking up made Tom dizzy, bringing a return of the nausea, and he hastily angled back against Catos and closed his eyes. They were moving slowly now, the horses’ feet striking a sharper sound from the paved way, and a babble of voices flowed around them.

‘It’s so _big,’_ whispered Catos. Tom opened his eyes and twisted to look up at him. The boy was biting his lip, his eyes wide so that the whites showed stark against his dark skin. Tom wanted to say, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,’ but what did he know? He had no idea what was going to happen to either of them.

A brief meal and a chance to relieve themselves was followed by a rest in the shade which did Tom good. He dozed in the heat, and even Catos seemed disinclined to talk. When the shadows lengthened into mid-afternoon, they were herded onto a low dais. Tom looked around as he stepped onto the platform. They were facing a large market square, hemmed in by high buildings and filled with noise and colour. He was feeling much steadier on his feet, but he was still having some difficulty with his distance vision, which worried him; it would hamper his escape, should the opportunity arise. However, he could see that some of those walking freely amongst the goods for sale were slaves, which was reassuring. Catos nudged him, and Tom hastily copied the boy in casting his gaze to the ground. He remembered the comment that Mehos had made in Umbar, and he had no wish for a whipping to be added to his hurts. His hope was that he would remain in Hafar; he would at least be housed and fed after a fashion, and it appeared that some slaves were allowed to move around the city in a semblance of freedom. If he was either sold away from the city or kept closely confined, he would have to try to escape, but the collar would be a problem, as would the brand.

He kept his head down, and peered out through his lashes. Prospective buyers came to look the slaves over, and asked for this one or that to be brought forward for closer inspection. Only men were buying, and Tom was surprised to see that some were slaves. All the slaves could easily be identified by their collars, their tunics and trousers, and their shoulder-length hair worn loose and cut very straight. Freemen were dressed much as Mehos had been, with full-length white dresses and deep-coloured robes. Like him, they were ornamented with rings of gold in their ears, and like him, their hair was worn in long braids.

It was a slave who came and showed an interest in them: a young man with a grave face. He pointed to Catos, and asked some questions. Catos was taken forward, and the slave checked the boy over, then stood back and just stared at him for a while. Finally he nodded, and Tom’s heart sank; another lesson in slavery - friendships were ephemeral.

The slave came and stared at him. ‘This is _all?_ You have no other children?’

Tom’s captors were apologetic, and the slave stood tapping his teeth before coming to a decision. ‘I have never seen such a creature, but stand him there. I will look at him.’ He walked round Tom, and sucked in his breath at the sight of Tom’s shoulder. ‘And newly made a slave! That is often trouble.’

‘He has been no trouble, and look, he has very small hands, very nimble. That is what your master requires? Yes?’

‘If he has been no trouble, why has he such a wound to his head?’

‘He slipped and fell. Very unfortunate.’

The slave lifted Tom’s chin. ‘What is the truth of that?’ he asked, not unkindly. His skin was not as dark as Catos’s - a lighter brown - but he had the same very straight nose. His brows, however, were an almost solid black line above his eyes, just thinning a little where they met. With his well-delineated face and high cheekbones, the effect was striking. 

‘I fall down,’ said Tom, which was, after all, part of the truth. 

‘Hmmm,’ said the slave. He turned to the traders. ‘My master is needful of help, but I think the only way he will be glad of this... well, I do not know what he is, but the only way my master will not punish me for bringing this home, is if he is a bargain.’

The haggling was vigorous, and so fast that Tom could not follow it. He glanced at Catos, who was looking demurely down while obviously following the exchange closely. The slave turned away, and Catos raised his head to wink at Tom.

Sure enough, the traders called the man back, and the deal was concluded soon afterwards. To Tom’s delight, their restraints were removed. He rubbed his wrists and gingerly felt his shoulder; his fingers came away sticky with fluid that was seeping from the burn.

Catos hugged him. ‘I can look after your wounds properly now,’ he said.

‘You are friends?’ asked the slave. ‘Then I’m glad I bought you both together, but I still think there will be some trouble for me in this, but also trouble if I come home unsuccessful.’ He looked at Tom. ‘The first thing must be to get you covered. That will hide the newness of your brand, and also hide that you have a man’s body in your child’s frame. I do not know what to do about your feet. I have never seen such feet. My name is Faros. Come with me.’

‘He no worry we run away?’ whispered Tom as they followed the man across the market.

Catos looked surprised. ‘Where would we go? Now that we’re in the city? No slaves can pass the city walls without their master.’ His fingers strayed to his shaved head. ‘And anyway, we’re bald.’ 

Tom stared at him. ‘Bald?’

‘Yes, _you_ know, no hair.’ 

‘Yes?’

Catos laughed. ‘You are funny. We’re bald because of lice, but it means we’re newly bought, and shouldn’t be out alone. The slave-merchants shave all slaves that they hold for sale.’

‘But we go out sometime? Yes?’

‘Of course.’ Catos nodded his head towards their fellow slave. ‘Maybe I’ll even be lucky enough to be such a trusted house slave one day, but I expect many of them are born into their families.’

This didn’t quite make sense to Tom, and he wondered if he had misunderstood. Everyone was born into their family. 

‘I mean their _master’s_ family, of course,’ said Catos, in response to Tom’s query. 

Tom decided to leave more questions for the time being. Most of the ones he wanted to frame were too complicated for his grasp of the language. It was tiring having to concentrate so hard, and the heat of the sun was not helping his feeling of weakness that still lingered from the blow to his head. He felt unsteady on his legs, and longed to be able to sit down again. 

Everything in the market was laid out on the ground, and they had to pick their way carefully between fine coloured carpets, terracotta pots, bags of spices, and even wooden toys. Tom nearly fell trying to step between bowls of dried fruit, nuts and olives, and Catos put a hand under his elbow to steady him. Faros stopped first at an apothecary, where he bought a salve and bandages, and then beside a pile of tunics and trousers. He selected two complete sets of clothes for each of them, and led them to the public baths. Tom was surprised and grateful when he realised where they were; he had not thought that there would be such a luxury in Hafar, but it seemed that there were baths just for slaves. 

They undressed under the watchful eye of Faros, who raised an eyebrow at the sight of Tom’s underwear. The other eyebrow followed as Tom stripped completely. ‘So, very far from a child,’ he said. ‘What are you? A midget?’

Tom had no idea what the word meant; he looked at Catos. ‘He’s a _harffing,’_ said Catos. ‘He says all his family are his size.’ He giggled again at the memory, and Faros smiled at him, then laughed.

‘Is that so? Well, whatever a _harffing_ is, I think the mistress will like the novelty of owning such a creature, and I am relying on that to save me from trouble. What is your name, little _harffing?’_

‘Tolmos.’

‘And I am Catos. Is it a good family? Will you really get into trouble?’

‘Yes, possibly, but if the mistress likes our little bird, all will be well.’ He sighed and gathered up the discarded clothes. ‘I know the master will like you.’

Tom looked at Faros thoughtfully; he had the impression that the master’s liking Catos was not altogether a good thing. He washed, keeping his shoulder dry, and when he stepped from the water, Faros very gently bathed his wounds. Tom flinched away, but Faros was patient. 

’I’ve nearly finished, Tolmos,’ he said. He salved the wounds and bandaged the shoulder. ‘That was bravely done. You will need to soak off the dressing, but it is better than having your shirt sticking to the burn.’

‘I will help him,’ said Catos.

‘Good. He doesn’t say much, does he? How much does he understand?’

‘I understand good,’ said Tom. ‘More good than I speak.’

Faros nodded and handed Tom a wide strip of cloth. ‘Here, gird yourself, and get dressed, and I will take you home.’ Tom stood staring at the strip of cloth, at a loss what to do with it, and Catos doubled up laughing at his expression.

‘Like this,’ he said, and wrapped a similar cloth round and about himself. 

Tom blinked at the speed of it, and looked up at Faros. ‘I have own clothes?’ he suggested.

‘All your clothes have been taken to be burnt.’

Tom swallowed. They were just a pair of _drawers,_ for the Lady’s sake, but they had also been the last thing in his possession that he could call his own.

‘Here, let me help you,’ said Faros. He knelt and gave Tom one end to hold while he wrapped the cloth around him, and then tied the two ends. Tom felt like a babe being swathed in a nappy, but the thought came to him that Barard would enjoy unwrapping this package. He wriggled his hips, and adjusted the position of his cock. It was actually very comfortable, but he was sure it would have fallen around his ankles if he’d tried to wrap and tie it. He pulled on the baggy trousers, and Faros helped him with his tunic, taking care of his head and branded shoulder. 

Faros did not take them straight home, but led them to a small shop selling coffee and pastries. At the slave market, apothecary, clothier and baths, Faros had not handed over any money: he’d simply produced a small stamp, made its mark on the vendor’s scroll, and signed next to it. Now, he reached into his pocket and pulled out some small coins. ‘What would you like?’ he asked. 

Tom looked at what was on offer and realised he was starving. He had no idea what anything was, and simply chose the same as Catos. They sat at a small table outside, watching the bustle of the city. Tom had drunk coffee in Minas Tirith, but never like this: thick and black in tiny cups. He took a sip and blinked at how strong it was. The pastry was delicious, tasting of honey and almonds. He smiled at Faros. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m happy to give you a treat, but I’m also being selfish. The mistress will be out visiting friends in the afternoon, and if we wait a little, she is more likely to be back.’

‘I not expect a slave have money.’

‘There are always presents and tips. Where are you from, Tolmos? You don’t seem to know much.’

Tom shrugged. ‘Far away.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Faros drily. ‘And do you have slaves “far away”?’

‘No. I had a... Not a slave, a man I pay.’

‘You had a _servant?’_ Both Faros and Catos sat up in surprise. Faros sipped his coffee, considering Tom. ‘So what were you before you were a slave?’

‘I buy. I sell.’

‘A merchant? What happened?’

‘My friend come here. He... disappear. I try find him.’

‘You think he has been taken as a slave, as well? Is he a _harffing_ like you? I’ve not heard of such a one.’

Tom pushed crumbs around his plate, debating how much to say. He liked Faros, and at some point he had to start asking questions, or he would never find Barard. The worst that could happen was that he too would be arrested as a spy, but then he would hopefully share Barard’s fate. ‘He prisoner, maybe dead, maybe killed dead.’ He didn’t meet his companions’ eyes, knowing his own would look bright with tears. He propped one elbow on the table and hid the tightness of his mouth behind his closed fist.

 _‘Is_ he like you?’ 

Tom nodded. 

‘Then he has not been executed; they are all public. I think there would be trouble over such an execution. It is against the law to take a child’s life.’

‘He not a child,’ said Tom, wishing his voice were steadier.

‘But to the crowd he would look like one, yes? There would be a riot. He must be a good friend, for you to come seeking him.’

Tom raised his head. ‘He good friend,’ he agreed.

As they left, Catos took his hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘It’s like losing my little brother, yes?’

Tom nodded, wanting to just crawl into a corner and be left alone, but Faros turned. ‘I think it’s like losing a lover,’ he said. He stalked off, and they had to run to keep up, dodging water sellers and beggars, donkey carts and street cleaners. After a while they left the crowded streets behind and entered a wide way lined with trees. The houses here were similar to those Tom had first seen as he entered Hafar, but the district was quieter and more affluent. There were no gaps between the houses, and each had only one entrance, so Tom was not surprised when Faros led them through a front door. It was flanked with golden statues of women in rather scanty clothes, but that in no way prepared Tom for what he found in the lobby area. A huge phallus reared from a small statue on a plinth just inside. It was so large that a prop supported it. Tom blinked in disbelief: who would want such a thing, let alone have it standing almost in the doorway? Faros and Catos didn’t even spare it a glance, and Tom suddenly realised he’d been left gawping at it. He shut his mouth, and heard the chatter of women, then Faros replying. It seemed that Faros had timed their return as he had wished. Tom turned through an archway and found himself in a large hallway with a fountain in the middle and boldly coloured murals on the walls. The pictures were mostly of birds and animals, but he had no time to look carefully. 

‘I have bought you a little bird,’ said Faros, and suddenly Tom was surrounded by bright dresses and clashing bangles. A woman and four girls knelt down around him with cries of delight. They all wore veils across their faces and jewelled headdresses, and their eyes were bright with laughter. Tom hastily looked down.

‘Oh, he’s so sweet,’ cried one.

‘Look! Look! He’s got furry feet.’ The speaker stroked them, and Tom jumped back, shocked by such intimacy. If Barard was absorbed in his writing or reading, stroking his foot fur was the quickest way Tom knew to get laid. 

‘His poor head. Mother, look at his poor head!’

‘Melia thinks she is so special because she has that little monkey that rides on her shoulder. Wait until she sees this. She will be green with envy. Can he wait on us when she comes round? Pleeease?’

‘I think you should wait until his hair has grown a little,’ said their mother. ‘Faros, he’s adorable; where did you find him?’

‘In the market, Mistress. There were no other children; none of the traders in the last week have had a suitable child for the work. I hope the master will not be angry with me, think I have chosen ill.’ 

Tom studied his feet and the silk that pooled around him. It seemed that politics were all, and Faros was an expert. 

‘In the name of the Eye, what is all this noise? Can a man not sit in quietness in his own house?’ Tom itched to look up, but decided the more docile and slave-like he appeared, the better for Faros.

‘Father, father! Look what Faros has bought in the market! Isn’t he the sweetest little thing you ever saw!’ 

Tom wasn’t sure whether to be amused or angry at being treated like a small pet, but his new master had no doubt on the matter.

‘Faros!’ he shouted. ‘Númenorean devils take you! What is that - that midget!’

‘A new slave, Master. He has very small hands and...’

‘Don’t shout at poor Faros, dear. This little one will do very well, and just think! He looks quite grown, so he will always have such small hands and nimble fingers. You know how you complain that a child has no sooner learnt the work, than he turns into a great, clumsy oaf.’ A beringed finger stroked Tom’s cheek. ‘Is he a gelding, Faros? He’s as smooth as child.’ Tom had the thought that if he were to bite her - a tempting proposition - she would make excuses for him, like some besotted owner of a vicious dog. _It was my fault; I frightened him._

‘No, mistress. He is quite entire.’

‘Oh, that is good. They get so fat when they’re gelded.’ The finger curled under his chin and brought Tom’s head up. ‘What is your name, little one?’

‘My name Tolmos,’ he said, nearly overcome by the claustrophobia of silk and perfume. He hoped they would let him sit down soon. 

One girl clapped her hands, and there were squeals of delight. ‘Oh, he has a foreign accent!’ ‘Isn’t he charming!’ ‘A little bird! How perfect!’ ‘Wait until Melia sees him! She will be as sick as a parrot!’ Tom’s feeling of faintness increased under the barrage of exclamation marks; he swayed on his feet, and there were squeaks of concern from at least two of the young ladies. He could just see Catos hopping from foot to foot in anxiety beside Faros.

‘My ladies, I think he should be allowed to sit down. The wound on his head still troubles him.’ 

‘And just how did he come to have that wound, Faros? The traders would not damage stock except at some great disobedience.’ The master’s voice was still edged with anger.

‘He fell, Master. An accident.’

‘Then perhaps he is prone to fits.’ 

‘Oh, tosh, my dear. And anyway, you know if it were true you could take him back to those awful traders.’

‘Yes, and it’s the only reason I can take him back. How much have I paid for him, Faros?’

‘Ten kurus, Master.’

 _‘Ten!_ Did it occur to you to ask why he was so cheap?’

‘I did not ask, Master, because I could see _they_ thought he was of no value, but they’re wrong -’

‘Father, you’re being ridiculous,’ said one of the girls, the one who had stroked his foot fur. She tossed back her long black hair. ‘If Faros is wrong, what is the loss of ten kurus?’

‘Trust a slave to know a slave’s true worth,’ added another. 

They stood, the mother slowly, her daughters bouncing up, to wheedle their way round Tom’s new master. Tom swayed again, and Catos was at Tom’s side with an arm around him. Tom leant against him gratefully, feeling light-headed. His heart was unaccountably pounding as well. 

‘Poor little thing,’ said the voice he recognised as the mother's’s. ‘Let Faros take them both to the kitchens. You know those ruffians never feed them properly. You go and sit down, dear, and Lyria will bring you a drink, and Faros can bring both slaves to your workshop later.’

There was a disgusted noise, ‘Pah!’ and slowly the noise of the women faded into the distance. 

‘Good,’ said Faros. ‘That was well done, Tolmos. This way.’ Tom wasn’t feeling well enough to take in very much of his surroundings; he followed Faros along a covered passageway, open on one side to a large enclosed garden. There were columns supporting the roof, cutting bars of shadow from the sunshine, but nothing to keep out wind or rain. From Tom’s limited experience, rain was not a problem in Hafar. He blinked out into the sunshine; the house was built as a square around the central garden, and the colonnade continued around the four sides. The garden itself was full of colours, harshly vibrant to Tom’s eye, and he turned back to concentrate on following Faros round the corner and along the length of the second side. At the far corner was a large kitchen with shutters where the walls should be, part-folded back in a zigzagging arrangement of wooden panels. Tom caught his toe in a long groove in the floor as he crossed the threshold, and Catos tightened his grip as he stumbled. The room was dark after the brightness outside, but Tom realised there was a very large woman sitting at a wooden table in the middle of the room. Her eyes were closed, and her head nodded over a cup.

‘Mother,’ said Faros gently, and she jumped and clutched at her chest.

‘Oh, you gave me a fright, boy. I were just resting my eyes for a minute.’

‘I have two hungry mouths for you to feed, and if you care to give me something as well, then I won’t say no.’

‘Come in, then. Don’t stand hovering in the doorway where I can’t make them out against the light. Let’s see what you got. A gangly boy and a little -’ She stopped to stare at Tom, and he placed his fist to his chest and bowed. ‘May the Eye have mercy on us! You’ve brought an imp into the house!’

‘He’s very polite for an imp, don’t you think?’ said Faros. ‘The mistress thinks he’s sweet, so I’ll thank you not to use the word “imp” in the hearing of the family, and in return I’ll forget that you were asleep when you shouldn’t have been.’ 

Tom straightened, and it proved the final straw, the blood seemed to rush from his head, and his body just folded. He was dimly aware of Catos catching him, but he didn’t quite lose consciousness, and he felt fingers probe at his neck for a pulse. They were talking over him, but their voices seemed distorted, as though he were floating back in the public baths with water muffling the sound. He caught at the sense of snatches of words - his recent awakening as a slave, his wounds, his lack of understanding - and then clearly he heard Faros say, ‘He’s lost more than a friend or brother, I think. You should have seen his face when he told us. He tried to hide it, but -’

‘But you know how he feels, and you’ve took this little bird under your wing.’

Tom wanted to curl into a ball around the ache inside, but Catos held him tight. ‘I’ll take care of him!’

There was a wheezy laugh. ‘He’ll do well if he isn’t suffocated betwixt and between the ladies and you two.’

‘I’m _not_ suffocating him!’

Tom tried not to cough to give a lie to the words, and opened his eyes. Faros was squatting beside them, holding Catos’s gaze. ‘And I’m not stopping you from taking care of him. Just remember he isn’t your little brother, and he isn’t a child.’

‘I know that!’

Faros smiled. ‘Good. Now let me carry him to our room. You can sit with him while the mother prepares some food, and I will bring it to you.’ He looked down at Tom, and his eyes were kind as he met Tom’s gaze. ‘Will you permit me? To carry you?’

Tom nodded. He just wanted to lie down. He reached an arm around Faros’s neck as he was lifted up. There was the light and shade of the colonnade once more, and then shade as they entered a room with four beds and little else. Tom took in a high window and whitewashed walls. Faros laid him on a bed; the mattress was hard, but Tom didn’t care. Standing in the sun, hurrying after Faros in the market, the strong coffee and the overpowering welcome had all taken their toll. 

‘Don’t worry,’ said Faros. ‘You’ll be fine soon. I’ll tell the master you are indisposed for this evening.’

‘You be in trouble?’

‘No. Well, a little maybe, but it is the mistress who has the final say, whatever Bayos bar-Mahdos may pretend. Now rest. Does your head hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I will bring you something for it. They must have hit you hard.’

Catos cleared his throat. ‘The wolves of the desert told the traders that they’d had to bring him down by casting a rock at him, that he was like a cornered animal, ready to fight against five. They said they thought he was a trained fighter, and they were angry they hadn’t been warned.’

Tom tried to make sense of this. He had thought his attackers were the traders.

Faros was puzzled as well. ‘Why did they say that? If they wanted the traders to buy him?’

‘I don’t think the traders wanted him at all. They were muttering about it afterwards, but one said it was better to pay dearly for a worthless piece of goods, than to have the wolves of the desert at their throats. They chained him, and branded him, and... and laughed when he screamed.’ Catos sounded close to tears. ‘They didn’t give him anything for the pain, before or after, and then they just threw him down in the bottom of the cart with me. I didn’t know men could be so cruel.’

Tom’s headache was making it hard to think, but he was surprised that Catos, a born slave, should be surprised at cruelty. He stopped trying to make sense of it all and pushed himself up, wanting to reassure the boy. ‘I fine,’ he said.

‘That you aren’t,’ said Faros. ‘And I’m not doing anything to help. I won’t be long.’ Catos sat and held Tom’s hand, and when Faros returned he was accompanied by the mistress. 

She sat on the side of Tom’s bed and felt his forehead. ‘He has a mild fever. Let’s hope it isn’t catching. What’s _your_ name, boy?’

‘Catos, Mistress.’

‘Was there fever in the traders’ camp, Catos?’

‘Oh, no! Nothing like that.’

‘Hmmm. Faros, are you going to tell me the truth about this little fellow?’

‘I do not think so, mistress.’

‘No? Well, he should have two days of rest, and then I will see if he is ready to start his duties. Give him this for the pain, and I will send some fever remedy to you. Call me if he worsens.’ She stood and smiled down at Tom. ‘Get well, little bird,’ she said softly. 

Tom watched her leave. Whatever he had expected, it was not this. If he was to be a pet, it seemed he was to be a well-treated pet. He gave up trying to understand and closed his eyes. He obediently drank what he was given, grimacing at the bitter taste, but it was easier to keep his eyes closed, and easier still to drift into sleep.

He woke feeling rested for the first time since he had learnt that Barard was lost, and clutched at a dream memory of Barard’s fingers stroking gently over his shaved head: _So, I finally get to find out what it’s like to kiss stubble._ His head did not feel so fragile, although the burn on his shoulder was still sharply painful. He lay curled on his good side, remembering another time, another wounding.

_Barard burst into Tom’s bedroom at Bag End, feet slithering for purchase on Ma’s polished floor as he skidded through the doorway. Behind him came Robin, grinning. ‘Seems you have a visitor, Tom. I’ll just shut the door, shall I?’ He winked and pulled the door shut as Barard almost slammed into the side of Tom’s bed._

_‘Tom! Tom! Are you all right? I’ll pulp those bastard Sandyman brats. What happened? Oh, your poor eye. Does it hurt? I came as soon as I heard.’_

_‘Calm down. I’m just a bit battered. Ma won’t let me up.’_

_‘I should think not. Robin says you’re bandaged all over! Can I hug you? Where can I touch you?’ He stroked lightly over Tom’s split lower lip and looked with concern at his swollen eye, then very gently kissed his upper lip and ran his tongue over it._

_All Tom’s boredom and frustration at just lying there with his ribs hurting pooled into frustration of a different kind. Barard was here! Oh, it was worth being beaten almost senseless to have Barard here when he’d not thought to see him for weeks. He was filled with a warm glow and the longing to take Barard in a crushing embrace, but common sense prevailed. He closed his eyes and sighed in contentment as Barard lapped and teased at his undamaged lip._

_‘Barard,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Barard, I love you. I’ve felt so... so lost without you.’_

_‘You didn’t have to go to these lengths,’ murmured Barard against his skin. Tom snorted with laughter, and his breath caught on the sharp tug of pain across his chest._

_‘Sorry, love,’ said Barard. ‘I won’t make you laugh. Was it because of that April Fool we played on them?’_

_‘They didn’t say, but I guess so.’_

_‘Cowards! Four to one. If they’d taken us both on, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. Shit, I’m sorry, Tom. That’s so unfair that you got all their stupid petty-minded revenge. If they weren’t so stupid, they would never have believed us in the first place.’_

_Tom didn’t really care any more, not with the way Barard was gazing into his eyes with such concern. ‘I got into trouble with Da,’ he said quietly._

_‘You got into trouble? For being beaten up?’ Barard was incredulous._

_‘Oh, they got far worse, I believe, and Da’s given old Ted Sandyman warning that if anything like this happens again, he’ll have him out of our mill, but he said we shouldn’t have made the family a laughing stock - not without very good cause. I got a long lecture on mercy and stuff. He asked me to promise we’d not do anything to get revenge.’_

_‘And did you?’_

_‘Promise? Yes.’_

_Barard sighed in dramatic resignation. He lifted the light cover off Tom, but most of the damage was hidden by his night-shirt. ‘So where can I touch you?’ He brushed his hand over Tom’s cock._

_‘There’s fine, as long as no one comes in, but don’t touch my balls.’_

_‘The bastards! They didn’t!’_

_‘Yes, they did. I thought I was going to puke my guts up, and that’s when they kicked me in the ribs.’_

_Barard clenched his hands. ‘I’ve not promised!’_

_Tom sighed. ‘Barard, listen. I don’t want you to do anything. I promised Da. I’ve been laying here thinking, and he’s right. He said Frodo of the Ring didn’t sacrifice everything so’s we could start some long-running feud. He said before you know, it pulls in all the family, until no one can remember what started it, and... and he said you don’t have to thump someone to be a hero. He said sometimes being a hero is not thumping someone, though you’d dearly like to.’_

_Barard stood up and shook his clenched fists in the air. ‘Aaaaargh!’_

_‘Don’t be angry.’_

_‘I’m not angry with you, my love.’ Barard paced the room. ‘And before you say anything, I’m not angry with your father. You know how much I admire him, but... orcs’ blood, I’d like to... Aaaaargh!’ He kicked the chest of drawers hard. ‘Ow! Shit! That hurt.’_

_Tom laughed and winced, and put a hand to his side. ‘So you’re going to beat yourself up, is that your plan?’_

_‘Right now?’ Barard hobbled over and grinned at him. ‘No. Right now I’m going to make sure there’s no damage done of a distressing and permanent nature. Can you bend your legs? Good. Mmmm, very good.’ He knelt on the bed between Tom’s feet, rucking Tom’s night-shirt back to fall around his hips. Tom didn’t need the guiding hands pushing his knees outwards; he let his legs roll open, and Barard leant forward and kissed his cock. ‘Oh, yes, that’s a fine sight and no mistake.’ His thumbs traced lazy circles up the inside of Tom’s thighs, and Tom lifted his hips with a soft cry, muscles bunching under Barard’s hands._

_A voice in the corridor made their eyes widen in horror. ‘What are you doing hovering out here, Robin?’_

_Da!_

_Barard pulled at the night-shirt, but in lifting his hips the cloth had caught beneath Tom, and it took a moment for Tom to register the fact and lift his hips again so Barard could tug it free._

_‘Barard’s here, and Tom wanted to tell him what you’d said in private.’_

_‘Oh good. Well, I expect you’ve given them enough warning that I’m here, don’t you?’ The door latch rattled, and - shit! - there was no way Barard could be off the bed and looking anything other than flurried and flustered, and there was still the sheet thrown back to explain. The door opened, and Barard grabbed one of Tom’s feet. He bent over it studiously and started pressing his thumb into the sole. The action had the added advantage of lifting Tom’s night-shirt away from his cock, so his aroused state was no longer immediately obvious._

_‘Barard! How nice to see you here,’ said Da, beaming at them. ‘I hope you’ll stay for a few days now you’re here, and help keep Tom company. Robin can shift in with Hamfast and Bilbo.’_

_‘Th - thank you, sir,’ said Barard, his voice sounding very unsteady to Tom, but Da didn’t seem to notice anything. He came and stood next to the bed._

_‘What are you doing, lad?’ he asked._

_‘I’m - I’m giving Tom a foot massage.’_

_‘Well, you want some oil for that. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.’_

_Tom and Barard just stared at each other for a moment, then Barard bowed his head low with a groan, and Tom let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Robin looked around the door, eyes wide. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There was nothing I could do.’_

_‘That - was - too - close,’ said Barard. Tom said nothing; his heart was thumping painfully._

_‘He’s coming back,’ hissed Robin. He slipped into the room, and made a show of collecting up his night-shirt and other belongings that he needed to move to his brothers’ room to make way for Barard._

_‘Here we are,’ said Da cheerfully. He placed a flagon and some drawings on the bedside table, and dropped a towel onto Tom’s belly. ‘I’ll find you a small bottle to decant some into; it’s more convenient like that. This one has rosemary steeping in it; very good for healing is rosemary. Another time I’ll explain the different herbs, or you can read Meriadoc’s book on the subject. Now, move over a little, Barard. I’ll show you how to use it. Don’t worry about making a mess of the sheets - it’s unavoidable really - but you’ll probably be glad of the towel by the time you’re finished, to mop up.’ He sat sideways on the edge of the bed and lifted Tom’s foot into his lap to spread oil over the underside. ‘Now, if you circle your thumb just here, it’ll have a calming effect.’ Tom’s heart slowed, and he swallowed. It felt good, not like Barard’s frantic probing a moment ago. Da smiled at him, then looked back to what his hands were doing. ‘Whereas here will help the pain in Tom’s chest. Tell me when I hit the right spot, son.’_

_Tom gasped; a warm glow was spreading along each rib in turn. ‘There,’ he whispered in disbelief as the glow settled over his cracked rib, dispelling the pain a little._

_‘Barard! Pay attention! Look how I’m moving my thumb, just pressing in and circling. It’ll take some practice, mind, but I’ve brought you the charts I drew up for Meriadoc. I suggest you avoid these areas, here and here, otherwise you’ll have Tom all dressed up with nowhere to go.’_

_‘Sir?’_

_‘He’ll be as horny as that ram of your father’s that tries to hump everything in sight. What are you laughing at, Robin?’_

_‘N - nothing, Da.’_

_‘Good. You come with me, then we won’t embarrass Barard when he’s trying it out. There’s nothing worse than having someone look over your shoulder all the time when you’re learning. If you would like, I’ll give you some lessons in massage. You’d be amazed at what you can do with feet.’ He herded Robin out, and shut the door behind them._

_Barard bowed his head to the bed and shook with laughter. ‘Your father... your father is such an innocent. I don’t think it even occurred to him that I might have been doing anything other than massage your foot.’_

_‘I can think of other uses for the oil,’ said Tom huskily._

_Barard rubbed Tom’s cock through the cloth of his night-shirt. ‘Mmmm, so can I. But first I’m going to see if I can bring that imbecilic look of bliss back to your face, and then I’m going to see just how horny I can make you with no more than your foot in my hand.’_

_Tom closed his eyes. It wasn’t as expertly done as his da’s, but it was still deeply relaxing. No wonder Ma swore by Da’s foot massages. Barard started on the other foot, and without meaning to, Tom fell asleep._

Tom smiled to himself. No wonder that memory was so clear: he had woken that time feeling refreshed as well, after having a broken night’s sleep of pain before Barard arrived. Suddenly he was shaking with laughter. He’d not thought back to the start of Barard’s love affair with massage - or rather his love affair with massaging Tom - for a long time. They had been the innocents, believing his da had no idea of what they were doing, or the help he was giving them. He’d _shown_ Barard the exact spots to arouse Tom; he’d even told Barard to _pay attention._ The laughter bubbling up made Tom snort into his pillow. _You’ll probably be glad of the towel by the time you’re finished._ Oh, Da! 

‘That sounds better, little bird.’

Tom rolled half onto his back and opened his eyes. Faros was sitting on the edge of his own bed, smiling at him. Tom glanced to the other beds, but they were empty, and the bedding had been folded back to air. He looked out of the room to the garden, and saw that the shadows were very short. He sat up. He had slept through the night and morning. ‘It nearly lunch time,’ he said.

‘It _is_ nearly lunch time,’ Faros corrected him. ‘And that’s a good sign; if you’re measuring the day by meal times, I’m thinking you must be hungry. If you’re able to get up, the family have all gone out, and we are going to eat together in the long room. The mistress said we were not to disturb you, but let you wake in your own time, and feed you well when you did.’

‘Mistress not know _Halflings_ eat much food.’

‘The mistress does not know that _Harflings_ eat a lot.’

Tom pushed back the covers. ‘That as well,’ he said.

‘You don’t want me to correct your mistakes?’

‘Oh, yes. Please, yes.’

‘Then you will learn more quickly if you repeat what I say.’

Tom searched back for the words. ‘The mistress does not know _Halflings_ eat a lot.’

Faros nodded. ‘Good. What are _Harflings?’_

 _‘Hobbits, Holbytla, Pheriannath,_ the Little People.’

‘Who calls you all those names?’

Tom ticked off on his fingers. ‘Us, Rhohirrim, Gondorians, Ents.’

Faros’s eyes widened and his smile faltered. ‘You come from the barbaric north!’

Tom was not sure what the word Faros used meant, but barbaric seemed a good translation judging by the look on his face. ‘And you... I not know words. Not believe in the One and paint your bodies.’

‘Ilúvatar is the One! And I do not paint my body!’

‘And the North not bar - baric... _is_ not barbaric. Do not believe all tales. Hafar is long way from how I think it to be, before I here.’

‘Everyone knows the northern king is a devil, a demon.’

Tom stood in front of Faros, overflowing with indignation. He liked Faros very much, but there was a point of principle here. ‘You speak what you told. He good friend of my father, good friend of me. He good - he _is_ good man. I from north, but not barbaric; I live in hole, but not imp; I small, but _not_ sweet; I dangerous if you try hurt my mate. I am _me!_ Look of things not good to tell what is real, stories not good to tell what is real. You good man, I think; that is real. I good hobbit; that is real. My father see soldier of the South, dead in big fight; he not think “There bad man.” He think “What lies bring him here, to die strange place; maybe he rather stay home with family.” My father very wise. He understand we all just people. My name _Tolman._ Friends name me _Tom.’_

Faros stared at him with his mouth open, and Tom patted him on the knee. ‘You my friend, I think. You name me _Tom,_ yes?’ 

Faros shut his mouth and cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, Tolm. I... I’m sorry if I caused offence. You speak much sense, and I apologise for thinking you... well, that you... that...’

‘That I stupid, yes? You think I not very clever, because I speak bad.’

Faros nodded. ‘A little, yes. I’m sorry.’

‘No problem. You help me speak better.’

‘You _will_ help me _to_ speak better.’

Tom grinned. ‘You _will_ help me _to_ speak better.’

‘Good. I’d like that, Tolm. I’d like to be able to talk to you more easily. I think you can teach me a lot, but come and eat now.’ Tom’s stomach rumbled, and Faros laughed. ‘Follow me.’ They walked out into sunshine. The garden was bathed in sunlight, and the heat met Tom as though it were solid. Tom had not paid any attention to where they were in the house, but now he found the slaves’ quarter was in the wing furthest from the front entrance. The kitchen was to the right, but they turned left, past a room with more beds, keeping to the shade of the covered colonnade. The long room took up the rest of the wing, and the view of the garden was restricted by tall plants grown in pots between the posts that supported the roof. Here was an elderly man - the occupant of the fourth bed in their room, Tom guessed - who Faros introduced as the gardener, and three girls of varying ages, all with the same dark eyes and bold expressions. They all flirted shamelessly with Faros as he introduced them, and giggled when he ignored them. Their clothes were the same as Tom’s, only more shaped, as befitted the soft curves of their bodies. Like all the slaves Tom had seen, with the exception of those sold at the market, their hair was cut to shoulder length.

Tom was just wondering what had happened to Catos, when he appeared behind the cook, carrying dishes piled high with food. As soon as Catos had set his burden on the table, he danced around Tom with whoops of pleasure.

‘Steady, boy, steady,’ said the cook. ‘If you have our little bird turning round and round like that, he’ll be falling over again. Bring the rest of the dishes, and then get him some cushions, or he’ll not be reaching the food.’

As the cook bustled out again, Tom decided it was time to clear up one small mystery. He looked up at Faros. ‘Forgive me, please. I not understand. She is your mother, or no?’ He suspected not. She looked nothing like him.

‘She is _the_ mother, Tolmos,’ explained Faros. ‘It is an honorary title, held by the eldest female slave.’ He shrugged, as though Tom had asked him why. ‘I suppose it comes from the fact that families are broken; I never thought about it before.’ 

Over the meal, Faros gave Tom and Catos instructions: no running and shouting, no short cuts through the garden, no speaking to the family unless spoken to. ‘If you need to speak to them, go and stand just inside the door until they give you permission to speak. And make sure you keep your eyes to the ground until then. Any money they give you is yours to keep, but any stealing and you will be in court. Yes, Tolm, what is it?’

‘You mean court is for slaves? Slaves get...’ he shook his head in frustration. ‘I not know the word. Court listen both sides and then say who right, who wrong?’

‘I think the word you want is “justice”,’ said Faros, and Tom tucked it away in his growing vocabulary. _Ard,_ justice. The talked turned to the courts, and Tom soon had the word _Ardeli_ for judgement and Ardelos for the judge. He tried to follow the rapid speech, but now that they were talking amongst themselves, words flew around him like the brightly coloured birds fluttering up from the garden, eluding capture. He gave up and concentrated on trying as many of the dishes as possible. There was rice, and meat skewered onto sticks with a smoky flavour, flat bread to eat with a creamy mix of cucumber and mint, small fish, salted nuts and olives, and a dish of tomatoes cooked with garlic and herbs. The gardener was truculent, and the cook called the girls “shameless hussies”, but had it not been for the fact he had no idea of where Barard was - whether he was hungry, in pain, or even still alive - Tom would have enjoyed the company. On one level, Tom could laugh at the girls’ antics as they teased Faros, but his grief lurked only just below the surface, waiting to catch at him like the remembered pain of a broken rib.

‘Is it not just our luck to be slaves in such a household!’ exclaimed the youngest girl, Lyria, as Faros ate studiously, ignoring the nuts she proffered him. By the laughter, Tom had the impression there was some significance to the offer that was hidden from him. The girl looked around and rolled her eyes. ‘An ancient, a beardless midget, a boy, and a man who would not know what to do with a girl if he came home and found her naked in his bed!’ 

‘Now stop teasing Faros, do,’ said the cook. ‘Tell us the gossip.’

The conversation veered into realms where names were scattered like petals at a wedding. It was a blur to Tom, until the pace slowed and even Faros showed an interest as talk turned to some mysterious noble who had arrived from the far south.

‘It is said that he is very rich; he arrived with fifty mûmakil as a present for Daros. _Fifty!’_

‘Not much good if he has no mûmak riders.’

‘No, didn’t you hear? Lord Sûlos gifted those as well. Fine looking men. Very tall.’

‘He has a large household, but no women.’

‘Maybe he is like Faros.’ The girls giggled.

‘He brought all his own slaves with him; the traders are furious.’

‘He has taken the old palace by the market place.’

‘That’s very run down.’

‘His workmen are there already; they say money is no object.’

‘He has taken his place in the courts, and they say he is truly interested in justice, that he will not take bribes.’

‘Hah! Then he will not last long! He will become one of the disappeared!’

‘What House is he from?’

‘I hear a different tale each time it is told. His slaves do not gossip, more’s the pity.’

‘Do you think,’ voices lowered to whispers, ‘that he is of the House of the Sun?’

‘He can’t be! Cyros hunted down and executed the remnants.’

‘That was when my grandfather was enslaved, he went to the help of the Sun.’ This was Catos. ‘But there are prophecies, telling of the return of the House.’

‘Oh, _prophecies!_ No one believes in them. Anyway, the prophecy always begins with the one who will come before and bring about the rise to power, and there’s been nothing like that. Everyone knows prophecies always have many meanings; that’s just a trick of the seer, if you ask me. However it turns out, they always seem to twist their prophecies to show they spoke true.’

Tom sipped at a deep red wine, mellow and full of flavours, and tried to keep up with it all, watching each speaker in turn.

‘That’s true of the modern seers, but this prophecy is ancient,’ said Faros with quiet authority. ‘It goes back to the Destruction. The Son of Justice will herald the return of the House.’

‘Maybe this Sûlos is the Son of Justice.’

Tom’s glass fell from his hand, smashing on the table, and splashing Lyria with wine. She leapt up with an exclamation, brushing at her clothes, but the red spread in widening stains. 

‘Tolm?’ said Faros, but Tom just sat staring at him. ‘Tolm!’

‘Maybe it’s some sort of fit?’

‘Best get some salt on that, girl.’

‘You clumsy... imp!’

_’Tolm!’_

Tom blinked at Faros. ‘The Son of Justice?’ he said, and his voice came out a hoarse whisper.

‘Yes,’ said Faros. ‘Bar-Ard.’


	6. Chapter 6

Tom stood shakily, scattering cushions. ‘I... I sorry,’ he said to the girl he had spilt wine over. ‘I feel not well.’ He tripped over the chair leg and stumbled from the room.

‘Tolmos! Wait!’ Tom pretended not to hear and kept going, but there was a patter of feet, and Catos appeared by his side. Tom kept his head down and made no comment; he just wanted to be left alone. He lent against the door frame of their room, breathing hard. His hobbit instincts wanted a _hole,_ somewhere private he could crawl into and curl up in a tight ball. His bed stood, man-sized, in the middle of the large room, and he shunned it. The far corner was in the deepest shadow, and he staggered over to it, to lean his back into the angle where the walls met. Slowly, he slid down until his forehead met his knees. He wrapped his arms around his legs and rocked his body to the rhythm of his grief.

He was only dimly aware of Catos touching his shoulder, and of the young voice - so hobbit-like to Tom’s ear - calling for Faros. There was nothing Tom could do except drop like a stone into the dark confusion of loss. He had no idea how long the fit held him in pain as real as a brand seared into his flesh. A bitter taste on his tongue was his first awareness outside of his prison, his next that he was held tightly cradled in someone’s arms with his head resting against their shoulder. Whoever held him was quietly weeping.

He opened his eyes. ‘Faros?’ The man had not moved Tom from his chosen corner, but had simply lifted him into his lap, and taken his place with his back to the wall; the arms that encircled Tom’s chest were shaking. Tom pushed away until he could see the man’s face. Faros looked as bad as Tom felt: his features were slack, and his eyes were bright with the tears that overspilled to run down his cheeks. Tom reached up to wipe the wet trail away from the brown skin, and Faros gave him a shaky smile.

‘Look at me,‘ he said. ‘I came to offer _you_ comfort…’

‘Grief together, not on own, can be comfort,’ said Tom, disentangling himself and standing up. He gave Faros his hand to at least start the process of pulling him to his feet. ‘You want tell me? About your lost one?’

‘There isn’t much to tell,’ said Faros. He got his feet under himself with Tom’s help, and then straightened to stand tall. ‘He died.’ He looked over Tom’s head, out towards the doorway and the garden beyond. ‘He died, and I loved him.’

‘He was your lover.’ 

‘Yes,’ agreed Faros. ‘He was my lover.’ He looked down at Tom, and Tom could see by the set of his face that he was barely controlling his grief. 

‘How long? How long he died?’

Faros didn’t hesitate a moment. ‘Seven months, two weeks and three days. They all tell me I should be getting over it, and sometimes I think I am, but... but I’m not really. Not really.’

‘Faros, I so sorry. I feel... not know word. Like I bad to make grief when my love may still live.’

Faros tipped Tom’s chin up. ‘Ashamed? Don’t be! I don’t know which is worse. At least I know what happened to Patros. Even if... even if I wasn’t with him when he died. I thought that was bad enough, but I can’t imagine how I would feel if I didn’t _know_ if he were alive or dead, or if he suffered and was in fear, and I had no way of comforting him. I’ve been amazed at how you have taken everything in your stride, but it seemed to me as though something had to give sooner or later. You have been very withdrawn, like a dog that creeps into a corner to lick its wounds. A little howling was well overdue, if you ask me.’ He smiled rather ruefully. ‘For me, as well as for you.’

There was a sniff from the middle of the room, and they both turned their heads. Catos sat hunched up on his bed, looking miserable and a little frightened. ‘Oh, Catos,’ said Tom. ‘I sorry.’

‘I know,’ said Catos, rubbing his nose. He looked more childlike than at any time since Tom had met him. ‘I thought I would die when my mother died. I do know. It’s just I thought Faros would help you, and... and he just picked you up and started crying himself. He folded up like you’d done.’ He looked from Tom to Faros. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

Faros sat down on the bed next to the boy, and put his arm around him. ‘It’s hard, Catos. All you can really do is wait for the other person to be ready to talk.’

Tom came to stand in front of them. He took Catos’s hand. ‘Hugging good,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘Hugging _is_ good.’ He smiled at Faros. ‘Thank you.’

‘So,’ said Faros. ‘Are you ready? To talk? What was it that we said?’

‘This...’ he hunted the word down in his memory. ‘This professee of bar-Ard. I not understand. It is known by all? I mean, the men who come from your high king to Minas Tirith? They know it?’

’Probably not,’ said Faros. ‘It’s well known in the south where Catos comes from. Where I come from.’ He smiled down at Catos as the boy looked up with sudden interest. ‘I know it well.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. I am of the House of the Sun, if it can still be called a House, but it does not do to say that openly.’ He turned back to Tom. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Why they ask him come here, if they know?’

‘I don’t understand. They _asked_ him? Know what?’ Faros looked thoroughly confused.

‘They ask us both, but I not there. I go to brother who is dying. Come back when he is dead. Barard gone. Barard already prisner.’

‘Bar-Ard!’ Both Catos and Faros jolted upright.

‘No. _Not_ bar-Ard. Barard. His name. So why they want him come? So they can put him in prisn?’ Tom was shaking. Had they intended to trump-up spy charges from the beginning? But then why not just refuse to allow them into the country if they thought Barard - dear Lady, _Barard!_ \- was in some way linked to this stupid prophecy?

‘It’s very likely they don’t know,’ said Faros thoughtfully. ‘The House of the Eye is a house of oppression; they don’t listen. Now, less than ever.’ He stopped at Tom’s frown of incomprehension. ‘Oppression is...’ he thought about it, ‘making people do things out of fear, not having any regard for the law, taking what they want - by force, if necessary. They are becoming further and further removed from their people. In the old days, the King was not above the law, but now Daros believes he is. He is very unpopular, but his closest advisers tell him what he wants to hear. That is what the rumours in the market say.’ His eyes shone. ‘Maybe the time is right; maybe the prophecy will come true!’

 _‘No!’_ It must be a coincidence, and Tom didn’t have the words to say how angry he was at the idea that Barard might be some playing piece in the politics of Harad. In any case, the prophecy seemed to say nothing about the Son of Justice living to see the restoration of the House, so there was no comfort to be had from it.

Faros held up his hands in a placating gesture, and Tom relaxed. There was no point in getting angry with these two who had shown him so much kindness. It was not their fault if this prophecy existed. ‘What other is professee say?’ he asked.

Faros’s mouth quirked up into a smile. ‘What else does the prophecy say.’

Tom shrugged. ‘What else does the professee say?’ he asked carefully.

‘First comes the Son of Justice. The Sun will rise after a long night, and an eagle will fly on the north wind to put out thine enemy’s Eye.’

Catos nodded, and then giggled. ‘Maybe our little bird is an eagle. He comes from the north.’

Tom rolled his eyes. He understood the slave girl’s comment now about being able to twist the seers’ words to fit any circumstance. His head was beginning to ache with the effort of finding the words he wanted, and of trying to get the sense of what he was being told. He still didn’t understand every word, but he understood enough. He looked at Faros. ‘And you? You ready to talk of your love?’

‘Are you ready,’ Faros corrected him.

Tom thought the man was stalling, but he was also grateful for the help. ‘ _Are you_ ready to talk of your love? How long you lovers?’

‘How long were you lovers.’

Tom sighed. It was the verbs that gave him the most trouble, but he was obviously going to have to learn fast; otherwise, conversation would crawl at a snail’s pace. He dutifully repeated the question.

‘Twelve years,’ said Faros. He bowed his head, and Catos scooted in close, reminding Tom of a puppy.

‘Here?’ Tom looked around the room. ‘You love here?’

Faros shook his head. ‘He was in a different household; we always had to meet out. There was nowhere here, and it would have been dangerous - if the master had found out.’

Tom vented his feelings in Westron, pacing back and forth and gesticulating as he did so. ‘Morgoth’s balls! You never got to share a bed, go to sleep together, wake up together. Fucking pit of fucking Angband!’ 

Catos giggled nervously. ‘He sounds funny.’

‘He sounds angry. Why are you angry, Tolm?’

Tom fetched up in front of them again, feeling as though he needed to lie down. ‘Because you not...’ He glanced at Catos. ‘You not... You lovers, but you...’ He gave up and threw his hands in the air, and stalked to his bed to lie down before his head exploded. He flopped back. He knew the word “piss”, so maybe the answer was to make up his own swear words. ‘I like piss in Eye,’ he muttered. ‘Be a slave is bad.’

 _’Being_ a slave is bad,’ corrected Faros, his lips quirking in amusement again. ‘And I advise you not to use such, hmm, colourful language openly; you will get into trouble. It’s only fair to say that the House of the Sun did its share of slave dealing in the past, but our last high king was in favour of abolition.’

‘That mean stopping it?’ asked Tom, understanding that Faros meant the last high king from the House of the Sun, and the man nodded. 

‘And he wanted to make peace with Gondor, but the House of the Eye put a stop to that, for all the founder was a lesser lord of the Sun. He had help from Sauron the Deceiver, and at his bidding took war into the north.’

‘In Great War?’

‘No, long before that - a hundred years or more before - but just as disastrous.’

‘Disastrous?’

‘Many Haradrim were killed.’

‘Oh.’ 

‘You said your father saw a Haradrim soldier killed.’

‘Yes, leader, gold collar, but not killed by him.’

Faros suddenly looked as though he were trying not to laugh; Catos was not even trying. ‘No, I didn’t imagine he was,’ said Faros, smoothing his hand down over his mouth.

Tom sat up. ‘My father a hero. He kill _orcs._ You know word?’

‘Yes, I know the word,’ said Faros, all trace of laughter wiped from his face. ‘Sauron sent orcs to help the Usurper root out my House. They came at night, always at night, to set fire to crops and houses. I have heard the tales.’

‘How old you were? When you first a slave?’

‘I was born a slave, Tolm, born of a long line of slaves. Now, I think you should rest.’

’You mean, no more want to talk.’

Faros disentangled himself from Catos and stood over Tom. ‘You see very clearly, little bird.’

Tom thought, _Yes, it’s what I’m good at. Barard’s good at understanding facts and figures, and I’m good at people._ ‘Little bird, bright eye.’

Faros nodded. ‘You speak truly, but rest now. Later I will take you to the baths, and soak the dressing from your shoulder. Come with me, Catos. You have work to do.’

Left to himself, Tom curled up on his side. Sweet Lady, never to wake with his love in his arms! What memories did Faros have? Fumbles in dark alleys? Even before he and Barard had gone into partnership together, when they were still living at home, they had often slept through the night in each other’s arms, and thought themselves hard done by to be crowded into a single bed. Not only that: years later they had realised how their love had been furthered by their families. He let his thoughts follow his earlier memory. Barard had ending up staying at Bag End for several weeks, and Da had shown him how to massage Tom to help his healing. He had hunted through his study, muttering to himself, before he found a richly tooled leather-bound book.

_‘You may find this useful,’ he said, running his fingers over the intricate pattern that twined over the cover. He stood for a moment, seeming as though his thoughts were far away._

_‘Thank you, sir,’ said Barard. Da smiled at him and flipped through the pages. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to read it since it’s in Elvish, but the pictures are very clear. Here’s the chapter on back massage, and look, this is good on hand massage. That will help Tom’s injured hand, now the bandages are off. There’s a lot here that won’t be of interest, and I’ll thank you to make sure you don’t leave it around where Elfstan or Holfast can find it. If muscles are tight, then it helps to warm the oil. Don’t get oil on the book, and if you’ve got any questions, you’ll have to wait until Ma and I get back from South Farm, or work the answers out yourselves.’_

_Barard took the book to the corner chair in Tom’s room and curled up with his feet tucked under him to read it. Tom sighed. Great. Thanks, Da. His parents were going to be out of the smial, and Barard was going to read a book. He padded off to the kitchen to get a drink and a snack, and found Frodo’s wife, Rosie-May, glazing a batch of buns that were still warm from the oven. Holfast was standing on a chair licking the sweet glaze from a spoon, but he clambered down when he saw Tom and rushed over to give him a hug. He was still clutching the spoon, and Tom fended his sticky nephew off, while Rosie-May moved with practised speed to grab a damp cloth, remove the spoon and wipe her son’s fingers._

_‘Careful, Holly,’ she warned. ‘Uncle Tom isn’t better yet; stop trying to clamber up him like that, you’ll hurt him.’ She hooked one arm around the child and carried him back to the chair. ‘You can put some buns on a plate for Uncle Tom and Barard. Let’s count them, shall we?’_

_‘Barard read me story,’ said Holfast hopefully._

_‘No, dear. You’re going to play with cousin Berry while I go to market. Here you are, Tom. There’s cold ham and coleslaw in the larder, and I’m leaving you some potatoes baking in the oven. There’s plenty of hot water if you should want a bath. The fire will be fine for a while, but maybe you could check it after you’ve had some lunch?’_

_Tom nodded and took the proffered plate, breathing in the warm, spicy fragrance. ‘What’s Ruby doing?’ he asked with studied nonchalance._

_‘She’s coming with me to market,’ said Rosie-May. ‘I’m sorry. You’ll be on your own. Frodo is away until this evening, and Bilbo and Robin have gone with Hamfast.’_

_Tom knew that; Robin had told him. The old Noakes farmhouse needed a lot of work doing before Hamfast could move in, and it all had to be finished before his wedding in the spring. Going back into his room, he made a lot of noise, but Barard was engrossed and didn’t even look up to smile at him._

_‘There’s buns,’ said Tom, but Barard just made a small grunt of acknowledgement and kept poring over the book. Tom put another log on the fire and sat down with his back to his bed. He ate his share of the food, and studied Barard. Ruby said he wasn’t handsome, but then she liked Hildimir, and the two brothers were as chalk and cheese. Tom wasn’t sure if he would use the word handsome for Barard, either. “Beauty” came to mind, but that sounded rather girly. His face was thin, but Tom loved to trace the curve of his cheek bones, the arch of his eyebrows, the narrow nose; loved to define those lips with the slow sweep of his thumb, and to cup the sharp chin with the palm of his hand as he gazed into Barard’s eyes. He sighed again, loudly and pointedly. Barard slowly raised his head, and Tom’s breath caught. There was no doubting that Barard was aroused: his face was flushed, his lips full, and the colour of his eyes were a hardly discernible rim around dark depths. The now familiar ache for his love’s touch had Tom across the room and kneeling before the chair in a heartbeat. Barard was hard under his caressing hand, and as Tom fumbled buttons undone, Barard shifted to open his thighs and allow him easier access. That gesture of opening to him thrilled Tom; he slipped his hand around Barard’s cock, and expected the book to be forgotten. Instead, Barard held it out to him._

_‘I want you... to do this,’ he said, and his words had a breathlessness to them, making them jerk like the hard heat enclosed within the nest of Tom’s palm. Tom looked from Barard’s face to the book, and his hand spasmed tight. What the...! Fuck was a favourite swear word; fucking was a lad entering a lass. Barard’s fingers curled painfully in his hair, and Tom could feel he was shaking. ‘I want you to fuck me like that, Tom.’_

_‘Shit!’ said Tom, staring at the graphic illustrations._

_Barard laughed nervously. ‘Well, I guess that’s a consideration.’_

_‘No, I mean, I can’t do that to you.’ He stared at the coupling. There was no mistaking the fact that these were two males. One was buried to the hilt in a variety of poses, and the muscle that ringed his full cock was stretched thin. There was no way that wouldn’t hurt like buggery. Tom choked slightly at his choice of word. He had known buggery was something to do with the arse, but had been hazy as to the details. He looked up at Barard. ‘I can’t hurt you like that!’_

_Barard turned back the pages. ‘I think it needs a lot of oil, and look, it shows some stretching first. Your father said if muscles were tight to warm the oil.’_

_Tom stared at the pictures in silence. His Da had never meant his words to be taken in this context!_

_Barard cleared his throat. ‘Could we at least try? I’m serious, Tom.’_

_‘And so am I. I’m not hurting you.’_

_‘Don’t you see what this means? It means we’re not... I don’t know... the only ones. It happens enough that it’s worth putting it in a book, and I really, really want this, Tom.’ Barard ran his fingers into Tom’s hair. ‘Please. I know you’ll stop if I ask you to.’_

_Well, there was that. Tom swallowed, and his cock answered for him, hard at the thought of Barard tight around him. ‘I’ll get...’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll get some hot water to stand the oil in. We’ve got the smial to ourselves.’ Barard’s cock twitched in his hand, and he bent his head to take Barard deep. Barard’s fingers tightened in his hair as he thrust into Tom’s mouth with a whimper, and Tom moaned and pinned Barard’s hips to the chair. He drew back slowly, letting his teeth rasp a little, and swirled his tongue around the swollen crown._

_‘I thought... you said you were going,’ said Barard, his voice shaking._

_Tom lifted his head. ‘I think I may be coming first.’_

_Barard pushed him away. ‘Don’t you dare. I don’t want to think about this. I don’t want to have to wait for you to get it up again.’_

_‘Why do it at all if it scares you?’_

_‘Kissing you scared me. I was so scared you’d not have me, not love me. We might just have got up and dusted each other down and snuck back to the smial, and the last few months might never have happened.’ He stood over Tom, letting his breeches fall to the ground before settling down to straddle Tom’s lap. ‘Fuck me,’ he murmured in Tom’s ear. ‘Just... fuck me.’ Suddenly the kitchen and hot water seemed a long way away. Tom’s hands moulded around the willing warmth of Barard’s bare skin, and their mouths sought each other with an urgency that was almost frenzied. At some point Tom must have moved one arm to support Barard’s shoulders while he turned and laid him on the floor, but all his thoughts were centred on the rhythm of the kiss, and he barely noticed he had done so. It was only as he settled over Barard that the pain from his rib made him catch his breath._

_‘Get off me, idiot,’ said Barard, but his flushed face and bright eyes were hard to resist. ‘If you’re sure everyone’s out, I’ll go and get the hot water.’_

_‘Best if I do,’ said Tom, looking at Barard’s half-naked state._

_By the time he returned, Barard was fully naked and cross-legged on the bed. Tom set the small bottle of oil into the basin and reached for his braces. His injured hand was a little clumsy, and Barard knelt up and took over. Tom watched Barard’s total absorption as he released each button; he smiled at the intensity of his expression and trembled at the whisper-soft touch of palms soothing over his skin. His trousers and drawers fell around his ankles to be kicked away, and he kissed Barard with a deep hunger while their hands wandered freely. Tom’s hands were full of Barard’s very lovely arse that just begged to be squeezed and kneaded, and he gave a soft moan as Barard stroked up his thighs and cradled his balls._

_‘No more,’ he whispered, teasing Barard's lip. ‘I need... I need to be able to think.’ Already it was becoming hard to do so, and he had no wish for Barard to push him to the point where he had no control over his actions, where instinct took over and there was no holding back._

_‘Thinking is overrated,’ murmured Barard against Tom’s lips. His fingers curled around Tom’s cock, and his thumb teased across the opening._

_‘I’ll not do this if I can’t think straight,’ said Tom seriously, and he laughed as Barard immediately sat back on his haunches, breaking all contact with him._

_‘So how should we do it?’_

_‘You’re asking me?’_

_‘I don’t see anyone else to ask. Unless you want to wait for your father to come home, and ask him.’ They both snorted with laughter. ‘Kneeling seems the easiest. I can’t do that thing with my legs around your waist; I’d hurt your rib, and anyway it looked difficult.’_

_‘Impossible, you mean.’_

_‘No, I don’t think so. But I might hurt you -’_

_‘You’re worrying about hurting me?’ Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Just kneel on all fours. No, other way about, and then I can reach the oil on the table.’ Barard obeyed him, and Tom knelt at the head of the bed. He reached for the oil and poured some onto his palms. The book had shown some general massaging and stretching first. He smoothed over the rounded muscles, running his hands down Barard’s thighs and up again to his turgid root. Barard’s sac was tight and hard, the balls snug in his hand. He stroked Barard’s rigid cock, guessing that the more aroused Barard was, the easier this would be for him. Trembling, he spread more oil over Barard’s arse, and Barard pushed back as Tom teased at his opening. ‘That’s good,’ he murmured._

_Tom leant over him to nuzzle at his neck. ‘Tell me if you want me to stop.’ He ran a finger up over the root of Barard’s cock, collecting oil as he did so, and very gently eased into him. Barard tensed, and his breathing became more ragged; Tom reached round with his free hand to stroke Barard’s cock, and murmured encouragement as Barard relaxed and rocked back against him. Another finger home, and this time, as Barard relaxed, Tom swept from side to side trying to open him further. The grip was tight, and Barard made a small whimpering noise. Tom immediately stilled, heart beating fast as he breathed in the sweet musky smell. I want you, he thought. Oh, how I want you._

_‘More,’ gasped Barard._

_‘You’re sure?’ Tom pushed in deeper, and Barard folded with a hoarse cry. Shit, that sounded painful. Tom started to withdraw, but Barard pushed back against him again._

_‘If you stop I will personally geld you,’ he panted. ‘And use your sac as a tobacco pouch.’ He jerked as Tom pressed in, and Tom tucked his free arm round him to steady him. Barard moaned and pleaded beneath him, and reluctantly Tom added a third finger. Barard hissed, and went still. ‘Don’t... move.’_

_Very carefully, Tom reached for the oil, took out the stopper one handed and poured some over his fingers. He massaged it around the tight muscle, and gradually Barard moved against him with a sigh. ‘Fuck me, ‘sgood,’ he mumbled. Tom moved with him as Barard dropped onto one elbow and reached to stroke himself._

_Tom was very aware of his own cock, of how hard and needy he had become. He was wound tight with excitement and apprehension. Three hands would have been good: he wanted to take over stroking Barard, stroke himself and still have this amazing tightness sliding around his fingers. He started to tremble, wanting very badly for his cock to be in Barard. Fuck! He couldn’t keep the muscle stretched and get himself well oiled. Four hands, four hands would be good. He eased out, and Barard whimpered and swore at him._

_‘Shhh, shhh,’ whispered Tom hoarsely, ‘I’m going to fuck you.’ He stroked oil over himself, hardening further at the slickness and the need. “Slowly” was going to take all his willpower. In his mind, he grasped Barard’s hips and took him with one hard thrust, but he forced himself to patience and stretched with his fingers again. Barard was pleading now, and his need fed Tom’s own. There was nothing he wanted more than to give Barard what he begged for. He withdrew his fingers and teased the head of his weeping cock around the opening._

_Barard clutched at the bedding. ‘F-fuck, Tom, please!’_

_Tom ran his free hand down Barard’s flank to grip his hip and steady him as he pressed in. They cried out together, and Tom’s control hung by a thread as the tightness slid over his crown and settled snuggly around his shaft. He tried to pause there, let them both adjust, but Barard rocked back to engulf him, hot and tight, and so good, so good. He reached for Barard’s cock, stroking down as he thrust in. Barard was sobbing, oh Eru, Barard was sobbing - was he hurting him? There was nothing he could do; he could only thrust and jerk, folding over Barard with a cry and pulsing deep within. He was answered by the spurt of Barard’s seed over his hand._

_He came back to himself in the realisation that Barard was still impaled by his cock and was shaking; worse, Barard’s face was half buried against the bed, muffling sound, but the sound was of weeping. Tom eased free, ignoring the trickle of liquid except to thank Eru there was no blood, and collapsed down next to Barard. The wonder of their union was lost in a tide of remorse. Pulling Barard into his arms, he kissed the tear-stained face. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Barard, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’_

_Barard pushed up to gaze into his eyes. ‘Don’t you ever, ever -’_

_‘I won’t, I swear I won’t.’_

_‘ - ever stop doing that.’ He ran a hand over Tom’s chest, and leant in to kiss him. ‘I’ve never imagined anything like it. It was so intense: like when you’re so full of... of love, that the only thing left to do is cry. Stop laughing at me, you pillock. It’s true. What about you? Was it good?’_

_‘Good? Good doesn’t begin to describe it.’ Tom reached up and cupped Barard’s face. ‘I felt part of you, I felt as though I was possessing you.’ His heart was still racing, and they were both covered in sweat and oil. He pulled Barard back down into his arms. ‘Oh, I love you, you crazy Took.’_

_Barard nestled into a comfortable position. ‘Admit it. I have some good ideas.’_

_‘You have some great ideas.’ They kissed lazily and dozed together, content to lie naked and sated in each other’s arms, but after a while the need to talk reasserted itself, followed by the need for a bath. Barard moved awkwardly, as though he were sore, but he denied this when Tom asked._

Tom groaned. He was hard thinking about it, and yes, he’d found out Barard had been lying about the soreness when he’d been the one being ridden hard for the first time. Happily, Barard loved being the one fucked, and Tom loved fucking him. He groaned again, and gave his cock a stroke. He hadn’t felt the need to come since he’d lost Barard, but he couldn’t indulge himself now. There was no way he could prevent a mess, and nothing to mop up with. He groaned again in frustration, and shifted his thoughts away from sharing a bath with Barard. Instead he remembered the conversation over supper at Bag End that evening. His brothers had been full of talk about the work they’d done on Hamfasts’s house, Da had given them the news from South Farm, and Rosie-May and Ruby had interrupted each other with gossip from the market. Through it all, Barard and Tom had sat next to each other in uncharacteristic silence, holding hands under the table whenever possible, and trying not to keep smiling at each other.

_‘You two are very quiet,’ said Da._

_‘Be thankful for small mercies,’ muttered Ham._

_‘You both look a little flushed,’ said Ma. ‘You’re not sickening for something, are you?’_

_‘With the amount they’ve just eaten?’ scoffed Bilbo, with all the righteous indignation of one who had put in a hard day’s labour. ‘What on earth have you two been doing to work up such an appetite?’_

_‘They’re growing lads,’ said Frodo. ‘Leave them be.’_

_‘So how did you find that book?’ asked Da._

_Barard cleared his throat. ‘Very useful, sir. Thank you.’_

_Da just nodded. ‘Good. Hang on to it for now, unless you’ve had enough of Tom’s company and are ready to go home.’_

_‘Oh, no, sir. I’d like to stay on, if I may.’_

_‘Stay as long as you like.’_

_‘They’re both looking like they’ve lost a farthing and found sixpence, if you ask me,’ said Ruby primly._

And Ma - Ma had looked at Da, and had nearly choked laughing. Years later Tom had asked his da, ‘Why didn’t you tell us you knew?’

‘Because you weren’t ready for us to know, son. In your own time, you’ve told me, though it’s taken longer than I thought.’

_Why didn’t we just come out and say it?_ thought Tom. _I suppose by the time we were old enough to take that step, we were away to Minas Tirith._ He wondered what Faros had meant about getting into trouble. Was lad on lad frowned upon here? He’d learnt a lot, but his ignorance was vast. In his preoccupation he hadn’t even asked what he would be expected to do in the household, what task required small hands. 

He sighed, trying to ignore the throbbing ache between his legs.

’Have you slept well, Tolm?’

Tom rolled over. ‘I not sleep,’ he said. ‘I thinking.’ Inevitably, Faros corrected him, and Tom carefully repeated his words. He sat up, making sure his tunic hid his aroused state. ‘Tell to me of master.’

Faros looked at him warily. ‘You don’t need to say “to”. It would be better to say, “Tell me about the master.” What would you like to know?’

‘What I do. What I _will_ do.’

‘The master is a jeweller. He makes -’ Faros appeared to be hunting for a word Tom might understand, but gave up. ‘- jewellery.’ Tom shook his head in incomprehension, and Faros held out his hand towards the door. ‘I’ll show you. We’ll go to the baths, and look into the workshop on the way.’

Faros lead Tom to the large entrance hallway, and from there into a side room. ‘This is where the master entertains customers, those coming to buy.’ He carried on towards a door at the far end, but Tom stood staring at the murals. So, man on man was not frowned upon, judging by the paintings that left nothing to the imagination. There were equally unsubtle pictures of men coupling with women. In the past, Barard had bought Tom some small love tokens of erotic art, but there was nothing erotic about this. Whatever the danger Faros had spoken of, it was evidently not disapproval of the act itself. Faros was standing at the door scowling, but he wasn’t looking at Tom. Tom followed the line of his gaze to a picture of a young man pleasuring the member of one who could only be described as old and fat. Tom wasn’t sure why something he and Barard had enjoyed so often looked indecent. Maybe it was the youthfulness of the one whose mouth was so busy, but maybe it was more the fact his companion seemed to be showing no regard for him. _He’s not even looking at him,_ thought Tom. _He’s not making any contact with him._ He’d never been in a brothel, but that’s what came to mind. If he had been doing that to Barard, kneeling like that at Barard’s feet, then Barard’s fingers would be curling into his hair as he murmured endearments. 

_Tom tilted his head to meet Barard’s eyes, smiling around his captive, and Barard’s breath quickened as his lips parted. Slowly, his eyes darkened, and the fingers in Tom’s hair started to tremble. Tom settled back to his task, and Barard found his voice. ‘I love you. Fuck, I love you so much,’ he whispered._

Tom stumbled as he turned to follow Faros, misery welling again. _Where are you, Barard? How can I find you? Please - not torture…_

’Tolm?’

Tom jumped. ‘I sorry - I _am_ sorry. I was not hearing you.’ 

‘I just said that this is the workshop room.’ Faros threw back shutters from barred windows, and the room was flooded with light. Weaponry adorned the walls, but it was all ceremonial or ornamental, far too adorned with precious stones to be of practical use to a fighting man. Faros guided him to a locked glass cabinet, and there was the answer to what the unknown Southron word was. There were necklaces and bracelets, earrings and headdresses. Some of the workmanship was very delicate, but overall Tom thought the display rather lacklustre, for all the precious gems that shone in settings of gold and silver. 

‘I will bring you here tomorrow, if the mistress says you may start work. You must bow to the master when you meet him.’ He looked at Tom thoughtfully. ‘Do you know what I mean?’ Tom bowed, Gondorian fashion, and Faros shook his head. ‘No, no, that will not do. Who bows like that?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but sank to his knees in front of Tom, bowing low to kiss Tom’s feet. Tom jumped back. It had never occurred to him before that men just didn’t know about feet. He stood trembling as Faros straightened. The whole action had been very graceful, presumably the result of years of practice. Faros smiled down at him. ‘You do it now,’ he said.

Tom shook his head. ‘No!’ he said emphatically, and Faros’s smile faded.

‘You must. You will be whipped if you don’t show respect, and I will be as well, for buying an untrained slave.’

Tom swallowed. He had been lulled into feeling that slavery was a rather cosy world. It would be a poor way to repay Faros for his kindness to earn him a thrashing, and it was obvious that Faros had no idea what he was asking. He jolted down to his knees, and gave the most cursory touch of his lips to each sandalled foot, feeling nauseous as he did so. 

‘Good. Now, this time don’t allow your bottom to stick up in the air, and you mustn’t rush the kiss. When you stand, rock back onto your heels first. Don’t scrabble up like that. Try again.’ Tom stood with head bowed, unable to obey, and Faros cupped his chin to raise his head. ‘What is it, Tolm? It’s a simple gesture, yes?’

‘No.’

‘No? Because you don’t like to show your subservience?’

Tom chewed on his lip. He didn’t understand the word, but it was unlikely to be the one he wanted. How to explain? ‘I like you, but not like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like I bed you.’

‘What!‘ Faros looked as shocked as Tom felt. ‘Who said anything about -!’ He suddenly laughed, but it was without humour. ‘You think that just kissing _feet_ is bad? Dear Lady, be grateful you are not to his taste.’ 

‘I sorry.’ Tom stood on one foot and indicated his tough sole. ‘Here no problem, but here,’ he touched the dark fur curling over the top of his foot and between his toes, ‘here is like you say, “You fine _hobbit,_ come to bed.”’

‘I see. Then I apologise for saying that to you by mistake, but you must kiss the master’s feet. No one will do that to you again, and we do not have the hair, so you will not be saying that to those you have to bow to.’

‘More people than the master?’

‘Yes. Any who come to buy, you will have to greet in such a way. Look, Tolm. It really means nothing.’ His mouth twitched, this time in genuine amusement. ‘I promise that I will not think you are wishing to go to bed with me, and it is maybe better to practice with a friend, yes?’

Tom sighed and nodded. It was true that by the time he had repeated the action five or six times it had become a little easier, and he was thankful that he had been forewarned. The fact his mind was elsewhere undoubtedly helped. _You think that just kissing feet is bad?_ What had Faros said to Catos? _I know the master will like you._ Nienna’s tears! No!

‘Much better,’ said Faros. ‘You see? It’s not so hard.’

Tom looked up at Faros and found, if not the word he wanted, then one that would do. ‘Master use you?’

The wary look was back. ‘Abuse me, do you mean? He has had me whipped, yes.’

‘Not what I mean.’ Tom stalked out of the room, feeling as though his hackles would be rising if he had any, and stopped in front of the painting that had drawn his attention earlier. ‘Like that!’

Faros’s face was a mask, and he made no answer.

‘And _Catos!_ He make Catos do that?’ 

‘I don’t wish to discuss it,’ said Faros, and his voice shook.

‘No? Well, I do!’

‘Tolm, there is nothing you can do, _nothing_ we can do.’

‘You bought him! For this?’

 _‘No!’_ Faros put his head in his hands. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll try to keep him away, but there is nothing else I can do, except... except...’

‘What! Except what?’ Tom knew what he would do, and it involved the bejewelled knives hanging so tantalisingly on the wall of the workshop. 

‘Tell him... I... I know what it’s like.’

 _Oh, Faros!_ ‘Since you how old?’

‘I told you, Tolm, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Tell me then, when you come here?’

Faros let his hands fall to his sides. His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the floor. Tom wanted to weep looking at him. ‘Since I was younger than Catos.’

‘Now you hope, no longer you? Master like Catos instead?’

Faros straightened, and his face, which had been so expressionless, contracted with anger. His hands were clenched at his side. _‘No!’_ He leant his forehead against the wall. ‘If I knew some way to make the master send for me, not Catos, I swear I would do it.’

Tom laid a hand on Faros’s back. He wanted to be sure he was understanding right. ‘Because you want master to send for you?’ He didn’t think that was the case, and he had no doubt when Faros straightened and spat on the floor. ‘No. I not think so. You want to...’ He had run out of words he knew.

‘If I could protect him, I would. We’re slaves, Tolm, possessions. There is little I can do. For the Lady’s sake, come to the baths.’ 

He was visibly upset, and Tom forbore to ask more questions. They went in silence to the baths, and afterwards Faros redressed Tom’s shoulder. When he had finished, Tom turned to look up at him. He was still full of disquiet for Catos, but another spectre had been raised in his mind. ‘Prisners be abused?’ he asked, hardly able to get the words out; a tight knot was clenched like a fist around his heart.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know the answer to whether prisoners are abused. I don’t know where to start looking for your friend. Tonight I’ll go to the tavern where the guards drink.’

‘Me come, too.’

‘No, Tolm. You are not allowed to leave except under my supervision to come here.’

‘Then we go baths at night, and find us in tavern.’

‘No. I’m sorry, but no.’ 

‘Faros, I must find him.’

‘We will find him, but not by your being disobedient, do you understand? I promise I will do what I can to find out, and it’s likely to be more than you could do, not knowing the city, and not understanding... well, not understanding very much at all, if I am to be truthful. Will you make a promise in return?’

‘What?’ asked Tom warily.

‘That you will not try to leave the house.’

Tom thought about this. He would consider a promise to Faros binding; was he prepared to wait patiently? He had intended to try and follow Faros that night, but it was true that Faros could pursue inquiries with more ease than a slave whose shaved head marked him as a truant. That was not the only consideration: it was likely that his truancy would be discovered, and while he had no care for what punishment he might receive, it was likely there would be repercussions for Faros. He sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, I promise.’

‘Thank you, Tolm. We can take a little time of freedom now. Let’s go to the coffee house.’ 

On the way they passed street vendors selling an array of cheap gee-gaws. They appeared to be aimed at slaves, and the men who called out their wares did not look as prosperous as those in the market place. Tom’s eye was caught by some feathers fluttering from a pole, and he stopped to reach up and finger one. It was the colour that drew him: a rich golden-red. Immediately the man started what Tom presumed to be a sales pitch, but he had some sort of accent, and spoke very fast. His voice reminded Tom of the slave traders, whom he had also struggled to understand.

‘He says he will make you up a necklace with your choice of feathers and beads,’ said Faros as Tom looked at him for help. ‘They’re not expensive; I can lend you a couple of kurus.’

‘I am allowed to wear?’

‘Yes, you’re allowed to wear them. They’re popular with slaves. The master would probably not like you to wear it when you work; he would not like a customer to see you with such cheap fripperies.’

Tom fingered the rich-coloured plumes. He needed nothing to remind him of Barard, but the colour was the colour of his love’s hair - the colour that marked him as a Took. He looked over the beads and picked out some green ones. Perfect! He let Faros bargain the price, and the street-seller deftly secured the feathers to a leather thong and threaded the beads on either side. The man produced a tiny pair of pliers and tightly wound the ends of the thong with wire, then shaped a hook and eye to secure it around Tom’s neck below his collar. It was a small thing, and yet it made Tom feel his individuality.

As Faros advised, Tom left the necklace in his room the next day. He was not looking forward to his meeting with the master. It was the first time he had seen the man clearly, and sagging seemed a good description: he was soft and flabby, with his gold belt dipping below and defining his large belly. He looked at Tom as though Tom were some noxious vermin, but it seemed that was better than being viewed with favour. Tom felt sick prostrating himself, and was grateful to Faros for a sympathetic touch to his good shoulder as he straightened. Standing in front of the master with eyes lowered, he could see the man’s beringed fingers were large and puffy; it was no surprise that he needed nimble-fingered help. Tom was relieved to find that it was Faros who would show him what he had to do. Even so, he earned a blow to the head when he did not understand something the master said to him. Faros steadied him as they were left alone.

‘Are you all right, Tolm? Your head...’

‘I think so.’ He felt a little dizzy, and the nausea was not entirely from demeaning himself to kiss the master’s feet. ‘When he talk like you, or the mistress, I understand, but when he talk like man who sell feathers, I not understand.’

‘That’s very perceptive, Tom. He thinks he hides his lowborn origins, but it’s there to hear for those who listen carefully.’

‘Mistress is not lowborn.’

‘No, you are right. The mother says he was a good-looking man who charmed the mistress with his courtship, although it is likely that it was her family connections and dowry that he was really after. Now, let me show you the different stones, and how to place them in their settings.’ 

He laid out an array of different coloured gems, and Tom nodded, giving them all their Westron names. ‘These good,’ he said, pointing to some pearls blushed with pink. 

‘These _are_ good. You know about gems?’

‘Dwarf is friend.’

‘Dwarves don’t...’ 

Tom grinned as Faros trailed off. ‘Dwarves not real? Are not real? I can tell you true story of dwarves that take _hobbit_ on adventure with many gems.’

Faros’s eyes lit up. ‘A story? Tell it tonight in the long room. Are you the _hobbit?’_

‘No, but he is well known to my father.’

‘And you said your father killed orcs? I’d like to hear that story, as well.’

‘Maybe I tell, if it not mean you stay in, if you go out again as promise me. I maybe need more better talk first, yes?’ They settled into the now familiar pattern of correction and repetition, interrupted by instructions and demonstrations of Tom’s tasks. He found the work came easily to him: a hobbit’s quickness of hand combining with a familiarity that was a result of watching jewellers at work in Minas Tirith when he was placing orders. 

It became even easier over the following weeks as his skill increased. The master gave grudging praise, and was happy to trade upon the fact that the customers he entertained in the anteroom looked on Tom as a novelty, and liked him to wait on them. Tom was kept busy - especially as his hair started to regrow, much to the delight of the ladies. ‘Look! It’s curly!’ ‘And soft! Feel how soft it is!’ ‘Father, we need to borrow Tolmos today, Melia is coming to take tea with us.’ He was soon able to repay Faros the small loan and give him money to ply guards with drinks. Nothing came of it. No one seemed to have ever heard of, or seen, a Halfling.

In the workshop, he was often left to work alone, which was fine by him. He knew why, from his time spent being petted by the daughters. _‘I suppose father is out gambling.’ ‘Hush, dear, not in front of the slaves.’_ He made dull jewellery as asked, but unknown to the master, he made his own variations with pearls and silver beads, always dismantling them when he had finished. In his mind was the curtain of water at Henneth Annûn with moonrise behind it, and within that memory was making love to Barard amidst a pile of furs on the cave floor, while the light sparkled and glittered over his naked body. _How long can I go on like this with no news?_ he wondered, regretting his promise to Faros.

In truth, there was little to distract his mind for long from his worry and frustration. Day after day passed, and there was still no news of Barard. His waking hours were spent wanting to claw his way through the walls of Barard’s unknown prison; nights were haunted by dreams of finding him dead - or, worse, broken irreparably in body and mind. If only he could get out of the house, he was sure that he would find where Barard was.

It was a full month after his enslavement before he was allowed some freedom. Bayos came as usual in the late afternoon to inspect his work, and Tom recognised the signs of ill-temper as soon as his master entered the room. He had learnt, by listening to both the gossip of his fellow slaves and to the chatter of his young mistresses, that his master’s mood could be tied to his success or otherwise in gambling; it was unfortunate that Bayos was a poor gambler and frequently lost. Tom expected to receive a blow to the head and angry words, but the master just scowled at him.

‘Get out,’ he said. ‘And send Faros to me.’

Tom was glad to obey. He slid off his stool, and hurried from the room. He found Faros in the kitchen, and the mother pushed a plate of honeyed cakes towards him as he entered.

‘Here you go, little bird. Help yourself. Catos is with the mistress, but I’ve kept some back for him, so eat as many as you like.’

Tom took one. ‘Thank you, Mother.’ He turned to his friend. ‘The master asks for you, Faros, in the workshop. He is in a bad mood...’ He tailed off, halted by the reaction to his words. Faros slowly placed the cake he was eating back on the plate; he looked sick. Tom was suddenly cold with apprehension, but he was uncertain what to say in front of the mother; surely Faros had implied that the master no longer abused him? ‘I tell him I not find you,’ he offered. 

Faros shook his head. He pushed back his chair and left the room without a word. Tom started to follow, but was halted by the mother. ‘I don’t think you can help him, little bird. I don’t know what the master does, or asks him to do, he won’t tell me, but - ’ She fell silent, biting at her lip. 

‘But?’

‘Faros is a good, kind man, as I expect you’ve found, but at the end of the day, he’s a slave, same as us. If you interfere, it won’t help him. You’ll just make trouble for the both of you.’

Tom edged towards the door. The master had not told him to stay out of the workshop. ‘But -’

‘Tolmos, sit down! I once heard the master, upstart that he is, tell Faros he’d had a handsome offer for him from one of the brothels. It was a threat. Do you understand? I’m not sure as the mistress would allow it - Faros was her slave before ever he was the master’s - but do you want to put it to the test?’

Tom sat and glowered at the table. It was intolerable. He barely responded when Catos bounced in, full of the news that they were to be allowed out if they were accompanied by Faros. He was too busy hating himself for feeling relieved that the master had sent for Faros and not Catos. 

‘We can explore the city! Lyria says there’s a drum circle tonight. I love dancing to the drums, don’t you? I wish I had a drum. I want to learn. Tolm? Are you listening to a word I’m saying?’

‘What? Yes, yes, I am. Drums, dancing. I’m not sure Faros want - will want - to take us tonight.’

‘But he must! I mean, this is your chance to find your Barard! And... and it will be fun.’ 

‘I see Faros recently. He not look well.’

‘Bugger,’ said Catos with feeling, and Tom winced at the choice of word. It had been Lyria, with lack of any modesty, who had given him a rundown of what the common swear words actually meant. She had winked at him, ‘You know, “bugger.” You’re like Faros, so I shouldn't have to tell you what that one means.’ 

Catos shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘I mean, poor Faros, but he’s not in our room, so he can’t be that bad. Maybe he’d feel better for going out - don’t you think?’ He looked at the mother to gauge her reaction.

‘If you wants my opinion, it’s that I don’t like such language in my kitchen.’

‘Sorry, Mother,’ said Catos, and he looked so woebegone that she laughed and handed him one of her cakes. 

‘But I agrees with you; it might be better for Faros to go out.’ They all turned at a soft footfall and were in time to see Faros passing by outside. Catos was about to run after him, but the mother caught his hand. ‘Let our little bird go after him.’

‘But Faros looks awful. Tolm’s right. He’s not well.’

‘I need your help, Catos. You can go see Faros when you’re finished. Let Tolmos go now.’

In their room, Tom found Faros lying on his bed, curled on his side and shaking. He knelt on the bed beside the man and rested a hand on his shoulder, keeping it there even when Faros flinched. He had no idea what to say. “Are you all right?” seemed trite in the extreme. He settled for the obvious.

‘It’s me. Tom.’ He half expected to be told to go away.

‘I tried refusing him, but he threatened Catos,’ Faros whispered. ‘If I didn’t do what he wanted, he said he’d send for Catos instead.’ 

Tom didn’t know whether to explode with anger or weep over such manipulation. With a great effort he kept the hand resting on Faros’s shoulder relaxed. 

‘Do you want to tell me?’ He was not surprised when Faros gave a shake of his head, just a small movement of negation that spoke volumes. And what if something like this happened to Barard? Would Barard tell him - if he ever found him? It was a sickening thought, amidst a host of other sickening thoughts. ‘Hugging is good,’ he suggested, and was both surprised and pleased when Faros struggled up into a sitting position and allowed Tom to hug him. 

‘I... I don’t know how you can bear to touch me.’

‘What! Because master is an _orc?’_

‘I feel unclean, like a leper.’

‘I not know word.’

‘Leper? A leper is shunned, considered dead. He must live outside the city, live on what food the charitable send.’

‘Why?’

Faros shrugged. ‘Because his touch is cursed.’

‘You not a lep-er. You my friend - you _are_ my friend. That not change by what master does. If you feel not clean, let us go to baths. Yes?’ 

‘A bath won’t make me feel any cleaner.’

‘But warm water feel good.’

They heard feet running, coming nearer, and in the instant before Catos entered, Faros’s expression changed before Tom’s eyes from distraught to his usual quiet gravity. Tom played his part, releasing Faros and rocking back onto his heels. Their act of nonchalant ease didn’t seem to fool Catos. The boy handed Faros a cup that was steaming slightly, and with one hand on Faros’s shoulder, climbed onto the bed to sit beside him and snuggle in close. Faros responded by wrapping his free arm around the boy’s shoulders, sipping at his drink in an absent-minded way as Catos laid his head against his chest. Tom smiled at them. Catos seemed to have a natural gift for giving comfort, and no words were needed. 

Faros took another sip of the drink, and grimaced. ‘Ugh, this is horrid. What is it?’

‘The mother says it’ll help you feel better. She says you ought to go out.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because -’ Catos eased free and slithered off the bed to worm his way into the narrow space beneath. His voice came back muffled. ‘- of this.’ He wriggled back out holding a drum between his hands. ‘And because you can take us; the mistress says so.’ He placed the drum in Faros’s lap. The lacings around the side were loosened over red and gold painted wood, the hide across the top was slack. A carrying strap of patterned leather hung down on one side. ‘The mother says you’re very good; she says maybe you could teach me. And anyway, the sooner Tolm goes out, the better. You said yourself that he’s like a caged animal, pacing around.’

‘Catos!’ As much as Tom wanted to get out into the city, he had no wish to put pressure on Faros by the use of guilt. Bayos had already made cruel use of that tactic. He looked uncertainly at Faros. ‘Did you say that?’

‘Sorry, yes, I did. You are. You calm a little when you’re telling us a story, but you’re on edge all the time. Catos is right, you need to go out. And you are right; a bath would be good.’ Catos leapt in the air with a whoop of delight. His happiness was infectious; both Tom and Faros smiled at him despite their cares, and Tom felt a rush of hope. Now that he could go out into Hafar, surely it would not be long before he found where Barard was held captive. He had no idea what he would do then, but finding that Barard was alive would be a start. He chose to ignore the fact that Faros had been unsuccessful. Somehow, he would find Barard. He stood up.

‘Then what do we wait for?’ he asked. ‘Come and show to me your city.’


	7. Chapter 7

It was still daylight when Tom stepped out with Faros and Catos. Catos bounced around them, frustrated by the slower pace dictated by the shortness of Tom’s legs. Tom glanced up at Faros. The grave expression was firmly back in place, and Tom could not tell if Faros was taking them simply to please Catos. The drum was slung against his back, leaving his hands free to point out the ways of the city. Catos didn’t care where they went, and Tom wanted to see the prison, so Faros led them across the market square. The place was as busy and noisy as before, but Tom found it easier to take in what he was seeing. A three-story building that stretched along the north side was shrouded in scaffolding, and Tom remembered the talk about the old palace being repaired. In many places the brickwork beneath the plaster was exposed, as red as the mountains that Tom could just see above the roofline. Workmen wearing little more than loincloths called to each other as they raised loads of bricks in buckets, using ropes and pulleys. They wore their hair shoulder length, like slaves, but the absence of any collar declared them to be freemen.

‘Where does the king live? If that is _old_ palace?’ Tom asked.

‘In the citadel,’ said Faros. ‘I’ll show you, but we can’t go in. All the king’s advisers and followers live there, when they aren’t in their summer palaces by the river. It’s like a city within a city, with its own guards. You won’t often see them: they have their own inns and brothels, inside. Just as well, there’s no love lost between them and the guards of the city.’ He led them up a broad paved road from which many lesser ways and alleys branched. It was steep, but less so than in Minas Tirith, and Tom was surprised at how quickly he tired; he could only assume it was as a result of his enforced inactivity. How closely confined was Barard? Had he even seen the sky in the last five months? At that thought he came to a halt, winded by the pain of his fear and longing for Barard. He bowed his head as he gasped for breath.

Faros stopped, to let Tom rest. ‘The citadel is the old city of Hafar,’ he explained. ‘But Hafar outgrew it, to spread down the hill and out onto the plain, and so the outer wall was built.’

Tom nodded, not trusting his voice, and turned to gaze out to the distant city wall and beyond it, into the west. Gradually, his heart slowed and his breathing came more easily. Given the heat, he was surprised he wasn’t drenched in sweat. ‘I ready... I _am_ ready to go on,’ he said.

Faros indicated a lane to their left. ‘We can take a short cut this way to the prison.’

Tom followed his companions into a narrow alley between tall buildings. The blue sky was no more than a narrow strip above them, and the flags beneath his feet were cool in the deep shadow. The houses here were not plastered, and had a shabby look to them. It seemed they were in a poorer part of the city. Several other lanes intersected their path, but Faros kept straight on, climbing worn steps to arrive in the open again. Tom lifted his hand to shade his eyes. He was almost dazzled by the light of the westering sun, thrown back from a large white building. Beyond it, reared the citadel wall in the now familiar red stone. 

‘The courthouse. The prison is behind it - on the edge of the hill.’

They turned left again, and Tom had a clear view of the mountains receding into the distance, the highest peaks white-tipped with snow. He didn’t know what he had expected. Maybe _Barard is here,_ emblazoned across the sky as the sun sank towards a low bank of dove-grey cloud, and tinted it to gold. He turned his back on the sun’s passing that marked one more day without Barard, and walked slowly up to the prison. It was a large square building, with high barred windows that showed the thickness of the walls. At the front were heavy wooden doors through which there was a certain amount of coming and going. 

‘They is guards, yes?’ said Tom, as two men left together wearing light armour that protected chest and back. At their sides, they carried curved swords. 

Faros nodded as he corrected Tom. ‘They _are_ guards.’ He indicated a poorly dressed freeman who had stood aside to allow the guards to leave. ‘He is probably visiting, or maybe going to pay a fine.’

‘Visiting? You mean, he go in and he _see_ a prisner?’

‘Pris _on_ er. Yes. Hey! Tolm! Wait! Slaves don’t have that right!’ Tom paid no heed to the urgency of Faros’s voice; he ran to the door and tugged it open. He paused as he entered; the interior seemed very dark after the brightness outside. 

A guard blocked his way. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, frowning down at Tom.

‘I want...’ Tom’s Southron deserted him in the face of what he wanted, and he looked helplessly up at the guard for a moment before taking a deep breath. ‘My friend pris _on_ er. I see him?’

‘What have you got there?’ another voice called. ‘A spying rat, maybe?’

‘Just a slave that doesn’t know his place. Go on, get out. You’re not seeing anyone.’ The guard drew his sword, and Tom backed away. 

A quiet voice spoke behind him. ‘Will you at least tell us if his friend is here?’ A hand squeezed his shoulder; Faros had followed him in. 

‘He’s with you, is he.’ 

‘Yes, I’m sorry. He doesn’t know any better. His friend is small, just like him.’

The guard advanced on them, and both Tom and Faros flinched as he set his blade against the side of Faros’s neck. ‘Get out!’ 

Faros grabbed the back of Tom’s tunic and almost dragged him out. Tom didn’t resist. Shit! He hadn’t meant to put his friend in danger. ‘I sorry, I very sorry,’ he gabbled. ‘Where Catos?’ His heart was pounding with the rush of fear that he was only now aware of, and all his verbs had deserted him.

‘Where _is_ Catos,’ Faros corrected him. He looked down at Tom, and suddenly they were both laughing with an edge of hysteria. Faros felt his neck, and his hand came away with a smear of blood. That sobered them. ‘He’s waiting in the alley. I told him to go home and tell the mistress, if we didn’t come out.’ He sighed. ‘This is not a good day.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘It’s all right. We’re in one piece, but we might have been arrested. Our mistress would have paid to have us released, I think, but we’d have been confined to the house, and the master would almost certainly have sold you on as trouble.’

Catos joined them at that moment. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ he said, his normally happy-go-lucky air lost in one of relief at their reappearance. ‘Imps _are_ trouble.’ His eyes widened as he saw the trickle of blood. ‘F-Faros, you’re bleeding!’

‘Just a scratch.’ Faros ruffled the boy’s short black hair, making it spike up. ‘Well done, for doing as you were told, and you’ll just have to help me keep Tolm out of trouble, won’t you?’ He turned to Tom, and his expression became even graver than usual. ‘Now listen, Tolm. We’re going to walk back round the citadel to the main gate, but we mustn’t loiter. They don’t like anyone hanging around. Don’t even try to go through the gate. Have you got that? They won’t waste time asking questions. If you’re _lucky,_ they’ll arrest you.’

‘Lucky, because they’ll put him with Bar-ard?’ asked Catos.

‘No,’ said Faros grimly. ‘Lucky, because he won’t be dead.’ 

It was twilight as they came back to the market square, but there were lamps burning everywhere, and the bustle of activity showed no sign of abating; if anything, it had increased in the relative cool of the evening. They bathed, and when Faros collected his drum from the attendant in the lobby, a group of slaves crowded round, clapping their hands high. They disappeared into the night chanting, ‘Faros! Faros! Faros!’

Faros sighed. ‘I’ve not played for months,’ he said as he hoisted the carrying strap over his shoulder, and Tom thought, _No, not since your Patros died._

In the market square, the atmosphere was tainted with the smoke from lamp oil, but as they made their way around the south side of the hill, there were fewer lamps and their way was lit by moonlight. Other slaves passed them in chattering groups, and Tom was aware of Catos becoming more and more excited.

‘What dancing like?’ he asked, thinking of fiddles and bodhran in the Shire, with the caller keeping them all in order. ‘In squares?’ 

‘Yes, it’s in a square,’ said Faros rather absent-mindedly, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. Tom’s mind was following his own memories, and he didn’t ask more. Barard loved dancing, but Tom always disliked the fact that they were expected to dance with a lass as partner; he often sat out so that he could enjoy watching Barard flirt shamelessly with one sister-in-law or another. They all knew where Barard’s heart was given, knew that he would never really want to bed them, and so they flirted back in safety and felt special for his attentions. He usually returned to Tom, flushed and laughing, with a light of lust in his eye, and they would slip into the darkness to make their own dance of love, their cries of release lost in the whirl of the music.

Tom halted, head bowed, as waves of misery engulfed him. He felt utterly bereft and utterly useless. He turned, just wanting to return to the prison and curl up against its wall, but Catos caught him by the shoulder. ‘Tolm! Where are you going? Faros!’

Faros turned back to them. ‘Tolm, you must come with us, or I must take you home.’

‘You not my... my...’ In his anger, Tom didn’t know the word he wanted.

‘Keeper? I’m afraid I am at the moment. The mistress has only allowed you out if you are with me, and I think she is wise in this. You will get into trouble if you go off on your own, and don’t for a moment think that getting yourself arrested would mean you’d be locked up with Barard.’ 

Tom glared up at Faros. ‘You _not_ my keeper!’

‘I am your friend. Is that better?’

Catos hugged him. ‘I’m your friend, too.’

The anger drained from Tom, but it had been the only thing keeping the tears back. He was tired of trying to express himself in Southron. ‘It’s hopeless, it’s hopeless,’ he cried. ‘How can I find him? I might as well be dead if I can’t find him.’

‘Tolm, I don’t know what you’re saying.’ Faros knelt on one knee to put an arm around Tom’s shoulders, and tucked his other arm around Catos’s waist. Tom burrowed into the sanctuary their bodies made, his voice muffled.

‘It is no hope.’

‘Listen, Tolm. You’re tired; you’re not sleeping, and that’s not surprising when you’ve been cooped up in the house. It is not hopeless. There’s qismat. Somehow, somewhere, you’ll find news of him, probably when you least expect it. You can’t force qismat, it just has to happen. Do you understand me?’

Tom nodded. Qismat sounded as though it were something like fate. _One foot in front of the other._

Faros loosened his hold. ‘Would you like me to take you home, Tolm?’

Tom expected a protest from Catos, but none came. ‘No, we go on. I come with you to drum thing.’ 

‘Good. I think that is better than your sitting at home.’ Faros started laughing as he stood, shaking his head when Tom raised an eyebrow in query. He stopped by a stall selling drinks and sorted through the coins in his pocket. He had barely enough, but waved Tom’s offer of help away and handed out mugs of a dark red liquid. It was thicker than wine, but not syrupy like a liqueur; it reminded Tom of mulled wine, except it wasn’t warm. 

‘It is deelish-us.’

‘Delicious. Yes, it is. Very comforting. I’m sorry I laughed. I was laughing at myself. The mother has been saying that to me for the last eight months.’ He shrugged. ‘I am better at giving advice than taking it. Yes?’

They entered a square crowded with slaves and a few freeman of the poorer sort. While not small, it was smaller than the market square, and all the buildings around it were reached by a series of steps that were being used as tiers of seats. A few of those seated held drums between their knees, and the beat passed back and forth between them. Tom could see no other instruments, but those in the centre of the square were tapping their feet or jigging around; he presumed they were impatient for the dance music to begin.

Faros touched Tom’s shoulder as he stood, looking around in the light from the moon riding high above them. ‘Dance or not as you like,’ he said. ‘But if you want to leave, come and tell me. Yes? There’s good drinking water in the fountain over there, and if you have a little money, you will find food sellers around the square.’ 

He slipped away to climb the steps, and the crowd surged around him, clapping and chanting. The other drums slowed and took up the beat of ‘Far-os! Far-os!’ As far as Tom was concerned, a drummer was a drummer: after all, how hard could it be? The drummer just kept everyone else in time. It was not long before he discovered how wrong he had been. If the drums had been talking before, now they sang, led by Faros in a wild rhythm that slowly built layer upon layer. Tom found his toes tapping and his head nodding to the underlying beat.

‘Come on!’ cried Catos and dragged Tom to the edge of the seething mass of people. Tom shook his head, pulling back. ‘This not dancing. I not know how to dance like this.’

‘Of course it’s dancing, and of course you know how - you just do whatever you feel like.’ He jigged around, stamping his feet and throwing his arms about, and Tom had to agree that everyone did just seem to be doing whatever they felt like. Once he got the hang of just letting his body follow where the drums took him, he started to enjoy himself. It wasn’t quite mindless, but he didn’t have to think. The throbbing beat quickened, rising in intensity, louder, faster, whirling them altogether, and then slowly died away. Tom stood blinking and panting as the cheering started, and he felt suddenly sick at his own enjoyment. He turned and stumbled to the nearest steps, and climbed to find refuge in the deep shadow around pillars and doorway. All he found were couples oblivious of his presence. He gave up and just sat where he was, resting his forehead against his knees.

_Barard! Barard would love this!_

The drums had started a slower tempo, mourning with him.

‘Have some water, Tolm.’ 

Tom turned his head to stare up at the earthenware mug Catos proffered. ‘I forget,’ he said dully.

‘Forget what?’ Catos flopped down beside him and pressed the water on him. ‘You need to drink.’ 

Tom sipped the cool water, but his throat was tight. He poured a little into his hand and rubbed it over his face, both cooling his hot skin and wiping away tears.

‘I forget to think of Barard - while I dance.’

‘That’s good.’

 _‘No!_ Not good! It is not good!’ He bowed his head again, his fingers clenched tightly around the handle of the mug. 

Catos gave him a quick hug. ‘I’m going to get Faros.’ 

Tom didn’t answer. He felt rather than saw Catos leave, and felt rather than saw a man seat himself on the step next to him. It was not Faros, though; the sandals were different, and Faros had strange feet: the second toe was longer than the first. He looked up warily. The man nodded a greeting.

‘You’re Tolmos, yes? Faros has spoken of you.’

‘Yes, my name is Tolmos.’

‘I’m Rufos. Faros asked me to come and talk to you. My master is allowed in the citadel.’

‘You work in citadel?’

‘No, I wouldn’t be here now if I did. Slaves of the citadel are not permitted beyond the citadel wall.’

‘Oh.’

‘I have been inside, to wait on my master.’

‘So you talk to slaves there?’

‘No, again. My master says Daros believes there are a hundred plots against him. I must not be seen to speak to any _but_ my master, except in the great hall in the presence of the king, and then only such talk as is necessary for my master’s comfort. If slaves are suspected, the master is not long left free.’

‘Oh,’ said Tom again. He couldn’t quite see why the man was telling him this, although there were snippets of information here to be stored away.

‘Faros has told me whom you seek. If I can help, I will be happy to. I can listen to what is spoken, as they take their ease over the wine.’

‘Thank you.’ There was no harm in being polite.

‘I cannot promise anything useful. I’ve never heard the Disappeared spoken of there, but you never know.’ Rufos jumped up as Faros appeared with Catos at his heels, and held out his hands palms up. Faros brought his own hands down, palms meeting offered palms with a smack, and turned his hands over for Rufos to reciprocate. Tom tensed, not sure what it was all about, but the next moment he relaxed as the two men embraced in obvious friendship.

‘It’s good to see you here again, Faros. It’s about time you stopped moping. I found your little bird, and this must be Catos. Calia’s here, so I won’t stop and chat now, but I’ll see you tomorrow, my family allowing, yes?’ He turned to Tom. ’And I’ll let you know if I hear anything.’ 

Faros watched him as he sauntered away into the crowd, and then sat by Tom. ‘Would you like to go home now, Tolm?’

‘Please, yes,’ said Tom, ignoring the fact that “home” was hundreds of leagues away.

‘Good. Yes, we’ll go. I’ll take you round some of the inns and taverns tomorrow, our family allowing. Don’t feel bad about enjoying yourself tonight.’

Tom hung his head and didn’t answer. He fought back his tears, and tried to stop his mouth from trembling.

‘All right, don’t talk about it, but I enjoyed it,’ said Faros. ‘And I never thought I would again.’ He hitched his drum higher. ‘Stop bobbing, Catos; you’re making me feel sick.’

‘But that was wonderful, you were wonderful, can you teach me, can I come with you to the inns tomorrow?’ 

Faros nodded. ‘Yes, you can come, but you must pay your own way.’

Tom did not have high hopes, since he trusted Faros’s assurances that he had asked widely about Barard, and that was as well; the quest for information in the inns and taverns proved unrewarding. He saved his kurus whenever possible to buy drinks for anyone who might prove useful, always hoping that the next day would bring some news. Guards, artisans and fellow slaves were all happy to drink with him, but nothing came of it. 

After a few weeks, he was trusted out on his own, and he gradually explored all the city, with or without his friends. He talked to anyone who was prepared to make conversation with a slave, but no one had seen another Halfling. Tom began to wonder if Barard had even reached Hafar. Everywhere there was talk of the Disappeared, but no one knew their fate. 

‘That’s the point,’ said Faros when Tom said this to him. ‘They just disappear.’

‘But are they dead?’ 

‘I don’t know. No one knows. There are those who are arrested, and they go to court, and occasionally there is an execution, but with the Disappeared, no one sees them taken, no one knows where they are, they are never seen again.’

‘In the citadel, maybe?’ suggested Tom. 

‘I’ve asked Rufos. He doesn’t know. When he goes into the citadel, he’s only been into the great hall. He can’t look around, and we can’t ask him to. It would be a dangerous thing to be caught doing.’

‘They could be - ’ Tom had difficulty saying it. ‘Dead.’ 

‘Yes,’ admitted Faros reluctantly. ‘But there is this: the Disappeared are never acknowledged by the king. Yet you tell me that he sent an ambassador to Minas Tirith with news of the arrest. That’s a big difference, Tolm.’

It was small comfort. If Barard had been alive then, who knew if he were still alive now? ‘But why has no one even seen him. I mean, there must been a time before he was arrested...’

‘Must _have_ been. But if he came at the king’s invitation, he would be taken straight to the citadel. It’s possible no one outside the citadel would have seen him. The king’s ambassador travels in state. Ask if any have ever seen _him,_ except at public ceremonies, and I will take a wager they will say no.’ 

In his frustration, Tom explored around the citadel, taking care not to draw the guards’ attention to himself, but there was no way that he could find to get inside. The walls were high and sheer: huge blocks of the red stone fitting together with barely room for a knife to be slipped between. To the south of the citadel, there was a precipitous drop to the valley below, a natural defence. When Tom left the paved way and scrambled amongst the rocky hillside to find this out, the view down to the wide fertile flood plain gave him vertigo. It was easier to look out over well-ordered farmland stretching into a distance bordered by forested hills. When he could bear to look down again, he could see the river drawn like a wide blue line on a map, meandering in vast loops, but he could only presume it was not navigable to the coast, or the Haradrim would not be so dependent on Umbar. There was plenty of traffic upon the water, but it was all small local craft. His vertigo returned, and he looked up instead. The vertical rock face continued high above him, almost as high as the golden domed hall. Movement on the wall made him duck behind one of the many rocks strewn across the rough ground, and he cautiously slipped back to the habitable regions of the hill, using all his hobbit skills to avoid being seen.

To the north, behind the prison, he found that the northern citadel wall seemed to grow from the rock. Although the hillside was less steep here, it was easy to see why the original city of Hafar had been built on this site. Beyond was a dry rocky valley, and beyond that, the first of the mountains rose in towering majesty. 

Watching the comings and goings at the citadel gate from a hiding place in deep shadow, Tom found that those allowed entry appeared to fall into two categories: those who were known to the guards - who were saluted as they entered, on foot, or more often in covered litters - and those who had to present written authority to gain admission. There was no way an unaccompanied slave could slip past the guards.

Difficulty sleeping drove Tom to roam the city in the early hours of the morning, when the quietness before first light was broken by delivery carts entering the city through the south gate. By the time the market was coming to life, they would all be gone, back to a countryside he knew nothing about. The carts made him think back to one of his favourite tales of old Bilbo Baggins, smuggling the dwarves out of bondage, but any cart arriving at the citadel gate was either thoroughly searched or unloaded there. Besides, the carts did not loiter on their way for the benefit of a hobbit wishing to smuggle himself aboard.

At the end of his early morning forays, Tom often sat tucked in against the prison wall on a narrow ledge that abutted the citadel, gazing out at the mountains, and holding imaginary conversations with Barard. The rising sun gave the southern slopes a deep red glow, and picked out corries and coombes in long shadows, hours before she was high enough to be visible over the hill of Hafar. Tom took care not to get too close to the edge of his eyrie, since there was some sort of signalling station on the hill below him, with large mirrors to reflect the sunlight and send messages as quick as thought. It was far more sophisticated than the beacons of Gondor, but he did not try to learn its secret. It had nothing to do with Barard, and therefore its only relevance for Tom was in keeping out of sight of the guards always stationed there. 

If he was still sitting there when the sun finally appeared around the side of the citadel, he knew he was in danger of being late to his work. On one such morning, just as he turned to run down the hill, he caught a glimpse of lights winking across the desert from distant peaks. He paused to watch until he realised time was slipping away.

Faros was angry when Tom returned at a run. ‘Where have you been?’ he hissed. ‘There are customers waiting.’ He brushed red dust from Tom’s tunic and sighed. ‘You’ve been up by the prison, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I am sorry. Have I made trouble for you?’

‘A little, but more for yourself.’

This turned out to be the case. Tom not only earned a blow to the head from his master once the customers had left, but was also confined to the house for two weeks, and threatened with being chained like a dog if he disobeyed. His misery and frustration increased as his ability to roam the city was curtailed. He became short-tempered and snapped at Catos - for no better reason than the boy’s cheerful nature - and could find no excuse for himself, even though he overheard Faros making excuses for him.

‘He didn’t mean it, Catos. He cares for you, as I do, but he is like a frayed rope that may give way at any moment. The two of you have been here nearly three months, and there has been nothing to give him any hope. I have begged the master to let him out again, his being kept in is doing him great harm, but...’ Tom could imagine the expressive shrug of the shoulders. He struggled up from his place in the shadows, meaning to humbly ask Catos for his forgiveness, but the boy’s next words halted him where he stood, and the answer made him collapse down again fighting for a breath.

‘Do you think his Barard is dead?’

‘I fear it is so - oh, bollocks! Tolm! I didn’t know you were there.’ 

‘Faros! What’s wrong with him? Tolm, I’m sorry!’ 

‘It’s a panic attack, I think.’ Fingers cupped Tom’s jaw. ‘Tolm! Look at me! Breathe in slowly, yes? Listen to me. We will find news of him.’ 

Tom stopped fighting to breathe, because after all, what was the point? If Barard were dead, what was the point in breathing? Immediately it became easier to do so.

Faros gave a relieved sigh. ‘Good, that’s better.’

Tom gave a sob at the irony of it - that when he gave in, he could breathe again - and then he was weeping in earnest, feeling as though the frayed rope had finally snapped. Faros lifted him up and carried him from the long room.

‘Faros, what _is_ all this noise? What is wrong with our little bird?’

‘I’m sorry, mistress. He is unhappy.’

‘Is he not well cared for?’

‘He fears his friend may be dead. He has Disappeared.’

’I'm sorry to hear it, but I need you, Faros; I have important visitors arriving soon.’ She touched the back of her hand to Tom’s cheek. ‘I will tell the master you are sick, Tolmos. You may have the rest of the day off, but please grieve quietly. It is a terrible thing, the way people disappear.’

Tom curled in against Faros, soaking the man’s tunic with his tears, unable to make any sensible reply or to take in any more of the conversation. It was, in any case, quite short. He was aware of being set down on his bed, and he released his tight hold on Faros.

‘I have work to do, Tolm, but Catos can stay with you for a while, and I will ask the mother to bring you something. Did you hear what the mistress said? She will tell the master you are sick, and you may rest for today.’

After Faros left, Catos sat beside Tom, curling his gangly legs beneath him. The boy had been in trouble lately for clumsiness, and the mother had grumbled under her breath, ‘Don’t they realise he’s growing! Of course he’s clumsy. Bless the lad, he’ll need new clothes soon at the rate he’s going.’ Now, tucked in against him, Tom realised that Catos had indeed grown: before, he had rested his head against the boy’s shoulder, now he listened to the beat of his heart. He took a deep breath and wiped his face with his sleeve.

‘I’m sorry, Tolm,’ said Catos, his voice rumbling against Tom’s ear, making it sound deeper than it was. It would not be long before it was deepening for real. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cross, earlier, I just meant -’

Tom cut him short. ‘Stop making me feel lot worse. I am the one who need to apologise. I get _cranky._ I not know how to say it in Southron. Barard make me stop. He tease me, and... I not know how he do it. Now, I worry about him, and worry about him, and that make me behave badly. Just ignore me. That is best.’ He was aware that he was not being as fluent as usual, but he was finding it hard to think straight. _Not dead!_

‘Oh. Like I used to ignore Minos when he had a tantrum?’

‘Yes, it is just me getting _cranky._ Tell me more stories of your brother.’

Tom settled in to listen as well as he could in the circumstances. It was a way to avoid having to make conversation himself, and it was good to hear of Catos’s happy childhood, marred but not spoiled by the loss of his parents at different times. Catos, he suspected, made happiness wherever he was, and he fervently hoped the master would do nothing to alter the lad’s trusting nature. 

The mother brought Tom an infusion, made sure he drank it, and took Catos away to help her in the kitchen. Left alone, Tom closed his eyes and thought of Barard, thought of other losses, and Barard’s comfort.

_He lay drained of tears, so many tears, and Barard lay quietly beside him. Not talking: he’d only said one word since he’d found Tom in his old room in Bag End._

_‘Love.’ Just that, with so much sympathy and understanding, and his recent loss of his own mother clear to hear. Just “love”, and his body laid alongside Tom’s, and his fingers stroking the tears from his face._

_Tom rolled into his arms to weep on his shoulder until the fit passed, and then they just lay quietly together as the afternoon wore away. Barard’s hand made slow sweeps over Tom’s back, and occasionally he pressed a kiss to the top of Tom’s head. It was Tom who said, ‘We’d best go home.’ He wasn’t actually sure which of Frodo’s brood slept here now, but he and Barard would be in the way. Not only that; only Frodo and Robin knew that they were together, lovers, for all that the youngest nephews and nieces - the ones born since Tom and Barard had moved to Minas Tirith - talked of Uncle Tom’n’Barard as though they were one entity._

_They stood, and Barard took him into his arms again, and kissed him with great gentleness, no hint of passion, although the room carried so many memories of their early love. ‘I love you,’ Barard whispered as they parted, and that love surrounded Tom as they made their way down the Hill, back to number 3, New Row. He walked with his head down, not touching Barard because they might be observed, and the pain in his heart was worse because he had never - could never now - tell his ma._

_Once inside their small home, they came together again. The scent of roses was strong around them. The flowers filled bowls and vases in honour of Tom’s birthday, and were a poignant reminder of Tom’s best beloved Rose, his mother. Hanging by the door were the beautifully tooled bridle and reins that Tom had gifted to Barard for his Shire pony, Clover, just that morning. Appreciative lovemaking had followed... and then the news that Ma was not likely to last out the day. Now, Tom bowed his head against Barard’s shoulder._

_‘She seemed so much better yesterday.’_

_‘I know.’ No trite words, just simple agreement._

_‘I want to tell Da, about us.’_

_Tom felt Barard’s nod of agreement. ‘But maybe we should wait until after your mother’s remembrance feast?’_

They had waited. And then news of another loss had fallen on Tom with no warning, as Da had suddenly announced that he was leaving for the Grey Havens.

Tom’s comfort had been Barard, but now it was Barard who was lost. Not dead! _Not dead!_

He closed his eyes. Barard was _not_ dead. Barard could not be dead. Barard was too full of life. Tom rolled onto his side and pushed a hand between the mattress and bed to pull out a rag he had taken from the workshop: one of the scraps of cloth used for polishing. It would not be missed. He wormed his hand into his trousers, no longer fearful that he would be caught in the embarrassing position of not being able to rewrap his loincloth. While not as fast as Catos at dressing, Tom no longer felt helpless inaptitude when he wound the cloth about himself - and usually it even stayed in place. 

It was rare for Barard to fuck him, and Tom could remember each and every time, remembered, now, that night with Da asleep in the next room, remembered being fucked into forgetfulness. His body did not welcome entry as easily as Barard’s, although he was not sure why. He teased his cock, needing that comfort, and Barard’s teasing echoed in his mind. 

_‘It’s because you like to be in charge.’_

_‘I do not!’_

_Barard eased his fingers free and leaned over Tom, naked and aroused, his breath warm against Tom’s ear. ‘Hush, love. It’s all right, you know I like it. I like you in charge, but tonight I’m going to fuck you and make you forget, so you’d best just relax.’ He soothed Tom, and teased his weeping cockhead against Tom’s arse, until Tom was pleading with him, swearing at him, wanting for once to be taken, wanting to be fucked senseless, wanting so much to forget._

_‘Hush, love. I’m…Aaaaah.’_

_Tom bit down on his lip as Barard thrust into him, and then cried out at the relief of it as the tight burning sensation gave way to something else entirely. Something that arced through his body in incandescent heat, like lightning striking up to the clouds. Barard thrust again, and Tom let go, opening to him, allowing his body to be filled, and with that opening came release that took him and shook him, and left him limp and gasping in Barard’s arms._

Tom curled in on himself as he jerked and came. ‘Barard!’ he sobbed, and the emptiness closed around his heart. Wanking off was some relief, but it was like scratching an itch: the relief was quickly loss, and the pain flared back in greater intensity. ‘I miss you. I miss _you._ ’ 

Being allowed out again helped a little - the time spent talking to anyone and everyone was time he wasn’t actually sitting moping - but as the weeks continued to pass with no news, his frustration grew. He became well known to the stallholders, innkeepers and artisans of the city, and their initial wariness towards him as an imp gradually disappeared. He was their little bird.

‘You have a reputation, did you know?’ asked Faros, early one morning, as he and Catos kept Tom company. They sat with their backs against the prison, gazing out over the desert, but kept their voices low to avoid the attention of the guards stationed below them. The mountains cast long shadows that stretched towards the west.

‘For trouble, I know.’

‘No, as a good luck charm.’

Tom snorted. ‘So where’s my share?’ he asked morosely, fingering the feathers and beads that hung at his neck.

Catos patted his arm. ‘It’s true. There’s lots of stories about your bringing luck. You’ll have your share, as well, you’ll see.’ 

Tom sighed. Sometimes he welcomed Catos’s boundless optimism, but today was not one of them. ‘It’s been months. There’s nothing. _Nothing!’_ He glared at Faros. ‘And don’t talk to me about qismat. I don’t want to hear it.’ He stood up, and stalked off down the hill. It was time they returned, anyway. He gave a huff of annoyance as Faros and Catos caught him up. With his short legs, he couldn’t outpace them, and the thoughts that beset him were not ones to share. 

How long? How long before he accepted Barard was one of the Disappeared, and would never be seen again? There was no way to answer that question. If he could find proof that Barard was dead, his course would be laid clear before him - but to decide _“Today... today I will give up”_ was impossible. He had told neither Faros nor Catos of his intentions should Barard be proved dead; if they knew, they would not let him out of their sight. Faros was like a mother hen around Catos as it was; Tom could just imagine them both, watching over him in fear of what he would do. No, he wanted none of that, and so he kept silent.

Later in the day, Tom managed to find some time alone with Faros. He glanced at the black line that the man’s eyebrows made. He was pleased to see the slight thinning of the hair where the two brows met. That was good: the master was out gambling, Catos was with the ladies, and his friend had relaxed. 

‘Can I ask you something - ’ He halted as he considered the word he sought, raising his hand as though he would grasp it from the air. ‘Something private to you.’

‘“Personal” is the word you want, I think.’

‘Personal, then.’

‘Something not for Catos’s ears, I take it? No, I don’t mind, although I don’t promise an answer.’

Tom nodded, saying, _That’s all right. You don’t have to give me one._ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you think about, you know, bedding Patros a lot?’

Faros gave a shrug. ‘We didn’t often have the luxury of a bed. Only when we saved enough money between us for a room at an inn for a couple of hours, but I suppose, yes, those are very good memories.’

‘But I mean, do you find yourself thinking about that, erm, every day?’

‘You mean that you do.’ It was no answer, but neither was it a question. 

Again Tom nodded and sighed. ‘And it’s not as though that’s what I really miss.’

‘Our bodies play tricks on us, my friend. Sometimes I think we have another mind -’ He gave a huff of laughter. ‘- with a mind of its own. So, tell me, what _do_ you miss the most?’

Tom closed his eyes. _What don’t I miss? Laughing at me with his eyes alight with green fire, mocking me when I’m too serious, calming me when I’m angry, fretting over the pomposity of burghers’ meetings. The way he can’t tidy up after himself to save his own life, his irritating habit of humming when engrossed in a book, and his even more irritating habit of denying that he’s been doing so. His quick Took mind, his generosity, his sarcasm. His love._

‘Everything. I miss everything about him. When we had arguments, it used to tear us apart until we...’

‘Made it up?’ It was a direct translation from the Westron. 

‘Yes. That’s how we say it, as well. I wasn’t sure.’ He knew his eyes were most likely bright with tears, but Faros would understand that.

‘There are things I remember about Patros that used to make me weep with the pain, but sometimes now I find myself smiling to think that such times were real. The memories are very precious to me.’

Before Tom could stop himself, he had spoken. ‘I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to reach a place where I look back at Barard with fondness.’ Luckily, Faros didn’t understand the message his words carried.

‘What I feel for Patros is not fondness, Tolm.’

‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I meant. I didn’t mean now, but what will you feel if you live to be an old man sitting in the sun in the market square?’ 

‘I see. That’s inevitable, I think. I find the idea quite attractive, not that the majority of slaves live to be old.’

‘Do you think you will ever love again?’ To Tom, the idea was unthinkable.

‘At the present time? No, I can’t imagine such a thing, but I know others who have said that, and yet been wrong. What about you?’

_“Oh, Tom! I’ll love you always. Don’t let death part us.”_

‘Barard has been my mate for nearly thirty years. They’ll be no other.’ They were skirting dangerous ground here. 

Faros took Tom’s hands. His brown eyes were full of compassion. ‘This is the first time you’ve really spoken to me of Barard in the five months you’ve been here.’

‘It’s his birthday, today.’ Tom could hardly get the words out. ‘A few more days, and it will be a year since I... since I last saw him.’ _How could I have been so stupid as to leave him, but how could I_ not _have gone?_

He hadn’t broken down like this for several weeks, and he felt the familiar comfort of Faros’s arms around him. The grief was as intense as ever, but Faros offered a safe haven. Tom was well into the sniffling, hiccupping stage before Faros spoke.

‘What have you got under your tunic, Tolm?’

‘Wh...what?’ He was stalling; he knew exactly what Faros was referring to.

Faros pulled up Tom’s tunic, and then hastily let it fall again. ‘Knives! Tolm! Where did you get them? Slaves are not allowed to be armed! You could be in serious trouble!’

Tom rubbed his face on his sleeve, giving himself time to recover. ‘I could be in trouble without them,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve been exploring the poorest quarters.’ He wanted to know every shortcut and bolt-hole the city had to offer, mapping them in his mind. There were areas where poverty was rife, where families with the privilege of freedom lived lives worse than slaves. It seemed sensible to have a means of defence, and he’d used some of the money he’d been given to buy two small knives in leather sheaths. Faros opened his mouth to make further protest, but Tom turned the conversation again, well aware that Faros was unlikely to let himself be diverted from the knives for long.

‘I was walking near the tannery the other day, and I saw three men.’ 

_Tom stepped carefully down a narrow alley, avoiding the refuse and effluent that made him think of rats and disease. The smell that filled the air was atrocious, although the prevailing wind kept it away from the rest of the city most of the time, and that was something to be thankful for._

‘Three men? You don’t say?’ Faros’s dry humour changed to anxiety. ‘You mean they threatened you with violence? You shouldn’t go into places like that on your own.’

‘No, there was no danger, but they didn’t belong there.’ 

_The men were not dressed in traditional garb, but their well-fitting trousers and tunics were a world away from a slave’s - fine materials, fine workmanship, rich dyes. Unusually, in the heat of Hafar, they wore boots. They were openly armed with straight swords, not the more common curved scimitar, and they walked like men used to command. Tom kept his head down as they approached closer, and squeezed back against a wall to let them pass. He turned to stare, when he thought it was safe to do so, only to find that the men had turned to stare at him. Hastily he lowered his eyes, and went his way._

Tom freed himself from Faros’s embrace and perched himself on the chair arm. ‘You know how we occasionally see a noble in a litter or accompanied by a guard of soldiers? They looked nothing like _them,_ and they were as tall as you, I would judge. One had a very hooked nose, but the others...’ He reached up and touched the point where Faros’s eyebrows met, and then ran his finger downwards. It had taken a while for him to get used to the lack of any dip in the line of the nose in both his friends, and he had never before realised how he had taken the shape of a nose for granted. ‘They reminded me of you.’ 

Faros sat up straighter, and Tom could see he was interested, knives forgotten. ‘Really? Do you know who they were?’ 

‘Great lords, I think. Have you any idea who they might be?’

Faros was evasive, but a few days later, when Tom told Rufos about the men during a chance meeting in the market, he was invited to an inn down by the south gate. Rufos ordered coffee for them both, and steered Tom into a quiet corner. When they were settled with their drinks, he glanced around before slipping a leather thong over his head. On it was hung an old, worn coin. He handed it to Tom.

‘Take a look at this.’

Tom turned the coin in his hands. There was a face stamped on the reverse in profile; it was only just visible, but there was no mistaking the outline. ‘Yes. Yes! They looked like that. Who is it?’ 

Rufos pointed to the script running round the edge, but it was meaningless to Tom. He couldn’t read Southron, barely even knew the Southron alphabet. He shook his head.

‘It’s King Julos, of the House of the Sun. There are few images of him to be found. All statues and paintings were destroyed by the House of the Eye. I found this in the garden of my master’s house.’

‘There were rumours when I first arrived in Hafar that there is a lord in the city who is of the House of the Sun.’

‘Lord Sûlos. Yes, I’ve seen him,’ said Rufos. ‘I suspect you have, as well. I’m surprised he hasn’t Disappeared, given the strong family resemblance. I’ve no doubt he would have done if he was really of that House.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘It would be funny if they didn’t realise how like the last king he looks _because_ all images have been destroyed. Daros treats him with a lot of respect, but the Jackal is less courteous.’

‘The Jackal?’

‘You don’t know about the Jackal? Most people think he is responsible for the Disappeared. My master doesn’t like to be anywhere near him. He fears him, I think, more so than Daros.’

‘But who is he?’

‘Karios, of the House of the Eye.’

‘So he’s related to the king?’

‘His cousin.’

‘Oh.’ Tom left the bitter dregs in his cup and stood up. ‘I’d better be getting back. Thank you for showing me that, Rufos.’

‘My pleasure. Always happy to help. But keep quiet about this. I’ve never asked Faros about his ancestry; sometimes it’s best not to know. Remember, slaves Disappear, as well.’

Another month passed, and they celebrated Faros’s twenty-eighth birthday. The mother cooked a small feast for the slaves, and Catos drank too much and was sick. It seemed to Tom that every time he blinked Catos had grown again, and now the youngster’s voice was beginning to waver from high-pitched to low and back to high-pitched again. Even pissed, and propped up by Faros, he didn’t stop talking.

‘It’sh _my_ birfday shoon.’

‘Catos, it’s more than three months until your birthday.’ Faros’s voice was amused.

‘I’ll... I’ll be a man.’

Tom laughed. ‘Oh, come off it.’

‘I will, sho.’

‘You’ll be _sixteen,_ Catos.’ Tom caught Faros’s eye to share the joke, but the man nodded.

‘If he was sixteen between the winter and summer solstice, he’d have to wait until his seventeenth birthday, but as it is, yes, he will come of age after the Festival of the Rains. Not that it means much for a slave.’

Tom gaped. ‘I had to wait until I was thirty-three, and in Gondor it’s twenty-one.’ Still, his own perception of entering adult hood coincided with taking Barard as his lover, and that had been a long time before he came of age. He kept quiet about his own birthday falling on the summer solstice, only a few weeks away now. It wasn’t a day he felt like celebrating. It would mark a year of captivity for Barard, _if_ he were still alive. 

Tom became lethargic and depressed as his own birthday approached. He stopped accompanying Faros and Catos out to gatherings like the Drum Circle, and spent a lot of his free time just lying on his bed, wrapped in a world of his own. The same old question went round and round in his head. _How long?_ How long could he continue with no news? And yet to go on, year after year, until he became reconciled to his loss, used to his life of slavery? That was unthinkable. Maybe he should just go and stand in the marketplace and shout, ‘I am a spy for the barbarian king!’ He could at least hope to share Barard’s fate, but his friends would come under suspicion, and might even be tortured to find out what they knew. Tom fingered the knives beneath his tunic. He had the means to end his life; there just had to be some way to decide, _‘This day is the day.’_

He wished Faros and Catos would stop trying to cheer him up. ‘I thought you said the grief got better?’ he said to Faros as they came into the month of his birthday.

‘I have found it has, but it is different for me, I think. I sometimes found it hard to accept that Patros was dead, but I knew he was, really. You live always on the edge of hope, so how can you put the grief behind you?’

‘I don’t have any hope. Not any more.’ Tom rolled from his bed. He wanted some privacy. ‘I’m going out.’

‘I’ll come with you. I’m free for a couple of hours.’

‘No. I want to be alone.’

He wandered the city, not really noticing where he was, only half aware of the many greetings called to him, and when he became tired, he trailed slowly back. He sat wearily down at the table in the long room, and Lyria nodded a welcome over a sewing basket. 

‘Will you tell us some more of the dragon story tonight, Tolm?’ she asked. 

‘Maybe,’ said Tom, but not really paying much attention. He looked around. ‘It’s very quiet; where is everyone?’ 

‘The mistress has gone to visit her brother, and the master has sent Faros on some errand.’

‘Where’s Catos? Gone with him?’

‘Nah, the master asked for him not ten minutes ago. I sent him along to the workshop.’

Tom was jerked from his lethargy in an instant. ‘What!’ He jumped up, not waiting for any reply, and raced out into the sunshine to take a forbidden shortcut across the garden. He slowed as he neared the door to the workroom, and turned the handle quietly. If Catos were simply sweeping the room or dusting the displays, Tom could just pretend he had come back for something he had forgotten, but even before he had opened the door, he could hear Catos begging to be allowed to go. He entered the room in blazing white anger, to find Catos cowering in the far corner, one hand pressed to his cheek as though he’d been struck. Tears stained his face. The master stood over him, unaware of Tom’s presence.

‘Come, boy, you will find there is pleasure in it, and if you refuse I will have that imp you like so well thrashed.’

Beneath the conflagration of Tom’s rage was a small voice of calm. _No, you cannot end your own life, but others can do it for you._ He reached for his knives. ‘Let him go, _orc!’_

The man spun round. Catos tried to scramble free, but was grabbed by the scruff of his tunic and hauled in front of the master as a shield. 

‘You filth!’ Tom shouted. ‘Let him go!’

The master sneered. ‘You will not risk injuring the boy.’

In answer, Tom let fly with a knife, hitting the wall to one side of the man’s head. It clattered to the floor. ‘If you do not let him go, the next will be in your throat.’ There was some satisfaction in seeing the master’s eyes widen in fear.

‘Help! _Help!’_

‘There are none to hear you. Let him go.’

‘You will face the executioner for this!’

‘Let him go!’ Tom hefted the knife into the throwing position, and the master pushed Catos away so violently that the boy fell to his knees. Tom stepped forward and helped him up with his free hand. ‘Go and find Faros,’ he said. He waited until Catos had run sobbing from the room, and lowered his knife. He could run, but he preferred to let fate take its course. _Qismat._

‘What is going on?’ The mistress had returned and stood in the doorway. ‘What is all the shouting about?’

‘Be careful! He’s dangerous!’

‘Tolmos? You’re talking about _Tolmos?_ Don’t be silly, dear.’

‘He tried to kill me. He has a knife! Go and call for the guards! Quick! He is a rabid beast.’

The mistress didn’t move except to hold out her hand. ‘Tolmos! Give me the knife.’

Tom reached up and placed it carefully in her outstretched palm without a word. He made no resistance as the master seized him roughly, twisted his arms behind his back, and bound him tightly. He felt very calm, glad that there were no decisions left to make, glad that it was over.

The master leant down, his breath hot against Tom’s cheek. ‘You will die for this, you little rat.’


	8. Chapter 8

Tom stood mute at the master’s promise of death. Suddenly his heart’s need to continue the search for Barard - forever, if necessary - was sharp and clear before him. He wondered how he could ever have listened to his head telling him to despair. And now... now it was too late. He bowed his head, felt the sting of tears. _Forgive me, my love. I have failed you._ He had no care for his own life’s end; his only thought was that Barard might still live, might still come to safety and grieve for him.

Bayos struck Tom across the face. His rings drew blood from Tom’s lip, and Tom staggered, almost losing his balance. He made no attempt to staunch the flow of blood, but looked up to hold the master’s eye, hoping that all the contempt he felt was clear to see. It gave him some satisfaction when Bayos broke eye contact to turn to his wife. The man’s rage looked sufficient to bring on an apoplexy. ‘Don’t just stand there, you stupid woman!’ he yelled. ‘Find someone to send for the Guard!’

The mistress drew herself up. ‘You forget yourself,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘Do not speak to me like that. I wish to know why Tolmos was threatening you.’

‘Why? _Why?_ For the Eye’s sake! It doesn’t matter why! One does not ask why a rabid dog foams at the mouth and bites all who come near!’

The mistress ignored her husband. She tilted Tom’s chin up and gazed sadly down at him. ‘Why, little bird?’

Tom saw his way clear to protecting Catos. ‘He was asking Catos to do things that - he should not. No man should force another to such favours. When it is a child...’ He trailed off, not wanting to be more explicit, but wanting her to understand.

‘Pah! He lies.’

‘Then tell me why he would wish to attack you.’

‘I told you! For no reason, but the madness in his brain.’

‘Where is Catos?’

‘Here, my lady.’ The mistress turned to the voice, giving Tom a view of the door. Not only Catos - the boy had found Faros. Catos cried out at the sight of Tom, bound, but Faros grabbed him before he could run into the room. The boy struggled in the man's arms. ‘Let me go! It’s all my fault! If I’d done as the master asked...’

Tom swore under his breath. Now Catos would hold himself responsible for his death. ‘Listen to me, Catos. This is not your fault.’

‘The fault will be decided in court - if your master wishes the death penalty,’ said the mistress. She turned to her husband, but Catos stared up at Faros in dismay.

‘The death... ?’ He tore himself free to prostrate himself before the master and kiss his feet. ‘Please! Oh, please, no. I’ll do whatever you ask, I promise. Anything!’

‘And what did he ask, Catos?’ The mistress’s voice was hard and cold, but she still looked at Bayos.

‘Nothing. I asked nothing!’

‘Catos?’

Catos clutched at one of the master’s ankles to stop him from stepping away, and sobbed out broken pleas for clemency. He did not appear to have heard.

‘Catos!’ The mistress spoke more sharply. ‘Whatever he asked you to do, he will not do so again. And Tolmos will not be executed - unless your master is lost to all shame.’ Tom swallowed and looked back and forth, mistress to master, and back to mistress.

‘Not... Pah! What are you talking about, woman?’

‘Once again, Bayos, I will ask you not to speak to me like that! If you wish Tolmos executed, you must take the request to the court, who will wish to question all the slaves, as well as the family. That is the law. Do you wish to hear what the slaves will say?’ She turned to Faros. ‘What will you say of Tolmos?’

‘That he has been hardworking and trustworthy, that he is kind to others, and that Catos is as a brother to him.’

‘And what will you say of the master, under oath?’

Faros closed his eyes and hung his head, his shoulders slumped. ‘That he has used me for his own pleasure.’

The mistress strode across the room, and the slap across the master’s face reverberated into the silence. ‘If you wish to go to court, then I hope you can find the price of my dowry. My brother has long urged that I divorce you, and he will not be satisfied until every last kuru is paid back.’

Bayos clutched his face. ‘Divorce? What talk is this? I should divorce you, for not bearing me a son!’

‘If that is your intention, my brother will still see every kuru repaid.’

‘Intention? No, no, I was just saying -’

‘Well, let me just say that I will answer the court truthfully as to your character and business dealings, your gambling and whoring. As long as you took your whoring to the brothel, and did not disturb _my_ bed, I overlooked it, but I will _not_ overlook your abusing our slaves in this way. You should be as a father to them!’

‘My dear, don’t get so excited, it is obvious they are in league together to cause trouble. It is this imp’s fault. You are right, it is probably best not to let them air their lies in public, but I will have this - this creature punished.’

The mistress looked down at Tom. ‘Did you try to kill him?’

‘Had I tried, he would be dead.’

‘You must be punished,’ she said. ‘Do you understand that?’

Tom nodded. ‘I am sorry, mistress.’ Sorry that such as Bayos was her husband.

‘When you have been punished, will you promise not to show violence against your family again?’

‘If Catos is safe, I promise.’ He started to tremble, as the realisation that he was reprieved took hold. _Barard, oh, Barard._

‘Faros, can his word be trusted?’

‘Yes, mistress. He has proved that to me.’

‘Good. In future you are answerable to me, Tolmos, and will take my orders. Now, you must be flogged. I am sorry, but such action cannot go unpunished. Faros will take you.’

‘I insist on seeing him punished! I will take him!’

‘Very well. If you must show your base nature, do so, but you will return him here as soon as possible, and Faros will care for him.’

‘I will, too. I will, too,’ cried Catos as he launched himself at Tom.

Tom kept his balance with difficulty, and was nigh suffocated by the fierceness of the hug that enveloped him. ‘Mmmpff,’ he said. He was reeling, not only from the effects of Catos’s affection, but also from the sudden reversal of his fortunes, and the knowledge that both Faros and Catos were probably now safe from the predation of their master. Maybe it was a good omen, maybe his luck would change. And he knew now how long he would search for Barard; the promise of death had at last shown the path he was willing to follow.

‘Catos, let him go,’ said the mistress. ‘Faros, take him away. Ask the mother to boil some water, and check the medicine store.’

It was with some difficulty that Faros prised Catos off Tom, and Tom dearly wished he could have hugged his young friend back. The leather binding was cutting into his wrists, but that was likely to be a small hurt compared to what was to come. Bayos attached a rope to his collar and struck him between the shoulder blades. ‘Walk!’ Tom staggered again, just catching his balance. 

The master waited until they were clear of the house before shortening the rope and striding out. Tom almost had to run to keep up, and even so, the collar pulled up tight under his chin, threatening to choke him. It was judged to a nicety: just short of making Tom fall so that he was dragged along, something that he could be relied upon to tell the mistress. 

It had not occurred to Tom to wonder where his punishment would be carried out, but as they started climbing the hill, his apprehension gave way to excitement. The prison! He was almost sure that Barard was not there, but hope stirred faintly within. 

By the time they reached the prison, Tom was gasping for breath. The racing of his heart seemed to falter and then race on at the sight of the familiar building. Bayos dragged him through the door, and as the rope slackened, Tom twisted his head to look around. The last time he’d been here, he had seen nothing but the guard. The entrance hall was intimidating in its height, a large whitewashed room with several doors leading from it. In a far corner stood a large desk, and behind it a man sat working through a pile of papers. To one side of him, a corridor led out of sight, while through an open door on the other side, Tom saw a group of guards taking their ease. He recognised many of them, had stood a drink for some, although none could be counted as a friend, and none made the comment that he longed to hear: _By the Eye, another of them! Where do you find these imps!_ He was trembling now. Being thrashed in the heat of the moment was one thing, but his fear was mounting as he had time to think about it. 

They fetched up by the desk, and it seemed that payment was required. ‘I will give you twice the amount if I may be the one to whip him,’ said Bayos, and the man seated before them looked at him coldly. 

‘Bribes may be in fashion, but I do not take them,’ he said. ‘Punishment is one thing, revenge is quite another.’ 

‘But he tried to kill me!’ 

The man pushed the money back to Bayos. ‘Then he should not be here. That is a matter for the courts.’ 

‘Oh, have it your own way, but I will see it done.’ 

‘No, you will not. This is not a circus.’ The man snapped his fingers and beckoned a subordinate from the guards’ room, rejecting the first man who stood. ‘No, I want Dalmos. Take him to room three. Five lashes.’ 

Bayos thumped the table. ‘That is a child’s punishment!’ 

‘He is the size of a child.’ 

‘But he is not a child. He is dangerous!’ 

‘Would you like me to return your money?’ 

‘No, no.’ Bayos handed over the end of the rope. ‘But make each blow count, yes?’ 

The guard called Dalmos ignored Bayos. ‘Come this way,’ he said, and Tom followed him down a long corridor into a square room with one high window. He swallowed nervously. The man nodded to him. ‘You are the one who has been asking questions, aren’t you?’ he said. 

Tom nodded and looked up at him. ‘Have you ever punished another like me? Seen another like me?’ 

‘No, never.’ He released Tom’s hands, taking some time to work the knot free on the leather binding. ‘Take off your shirt. You may like to know that your master will not be able to hear you from this room.’ He snapped manacles onto Tom’s wrists, but they were attached to rope, not chain. ‘Hold the rope. It will soon be over, yes? Now, then...’ 

The whip lashed across Tom’s back, white-hot pain snaking around his shoulders. He cried out and jerked under the blow, his hands convulsively tightening on the rope. The pain was just peaking as the next blow fell below the first. By the time the man had finished, the blows falling in quick succession, Tom’s whole back was on fire. When he was released, he fell to his knees, his mind numb to all else but the pain, and his body shivering at the shock of it. It was not as bad as being branded, not as bad as being kicked in the balls and having a rib broken, but he _hurt._ He started to curl over on himself, and hissed at the pull on his broken skin. 

‘Up you get,’ said the man. ‘That was bravely done. Here, let’s annoy that prick of a jeweller.’ He eased Tom’s shirt on over his head, and then tied his hands in front of him. ‘He’s the sort of vindictive little bastard that would want your hands tied behind you again, and believe me, this will be more comfortable.’ 

It was also not as tight. ‘Thank you,’ said Tom, and the man laughed. 

‘Well, there’s a thing! I don’t think I’ve ever been thanked before. I know that master of yours: he’s a bad gambler, and a bad loser, and likes to take it out on those as are weaker than him. Did you really try to kill him?’ 

‘I threatened him.’ 

‘Good for you, but I don’t advise doing it again. There are some here who enjoy their job too much, if you take my meaning, and you might not be so lucky next time.’ He kicked the rope Bayos had used into the shadows of the far corner, and winked at Tom. ‘The captain doesn’t allow bribery, but you can buy me a drink next time you’re in the tavern in Cartwright Street. I’ve seen you there. You probably won’t be allowed out for a while, but come when you can. I’ve heard that you tell good stories.’ 

Tom followed the guard back to Bayos. He found it was best if he kept his back rigid. His breathing had quickened and become more shallow with the pain, and each breath sounded loud in his ears. Bayos was angry about the rope, but the guard stood looking stupid. ‘I didn’t see no rope, sir,’ he said. 

There was little Bayos could do about it. He pushed Tom towards the exit, his hand coming down hard against Tom’s back, and Tom choked back a cry of pain. He heard the stamp of a foot as someone saluted. 

‘Permission to accompany them, sah! The slave is very dangerous, sah!’ It was the guard... his guard, and Tom’s heart lifted. 

‘Good idea, Dalmos, but come straight back, understand? No little detours into places licensed to sell alcohol.’

The presence of the guard prevented any further cruelty on Bayos’s part, but the walk back down the hill seemed a weary long way to Tom. All he wanted was to get back to his bed, and let Faros care for him. They were just crossing the busy marketplace when there was a sudden cacophony of shouting and screaming behind them. Tom barely had time to react before he was thrown to the ground as a horse careered between himself and Bayos. He crashed back onto a pile of pots and pans, and landed on his shoulder. His back did not escape as he collapsed over, helpless to save himself with his hands tied. The vendor made no move to help Tom up, but stood alternately wringing his hands and shaking his fist after the runaway horse. His invectives added to the general clamour and disarray. 

Tom rolled up as best he could, gasping in pain as metal pans and broken pottery dug into his back. He was shaking badly as he struggled onto his knees, and had to rest a moment before he tried to stand. Bayos was struggling in a great tangle of cloth, and the guard was on his hands and knees, blood trickling from a cut in his head. 

Tom was about to do what he could to aid the guard, when more screaming made him look up. The horse had run into a blind corner, and was rearing and plunging madly. Men were waving their arms around and shouting, and a woman and child were trapped behind the horse. Tom could see them cowering, wide-eyed with fear. They were in real danger of being crushed or kicked. He had never seen the result of a hoof driven into a man’s chest, but he had heard Mabdil on the subject. All pain forgotten, Tom ran across the market, hampered again by his hands’ being tied. He doubted any of the men knew the first thing about horses, and they were making a bad situation worse. The mare lashed out with a hind leg, striking a spark from the wall, and the woman screamed as she hugged the child close. 

‘Get back,’ Tom shouted. ‘You’re frightening the horse. Get _back.’_ His voice made little impression over the uproar, but for a mercy the men seemed to have come to the same conclusion. Tom slowed as he neared, and wormed his way to the front. He wanted to spread his arms and indicate that the crowd should move away. He picked on the man nearest the front. ‘Get them back,’ he shouted at him. ‘Move them back, and for the Lady’s sake, make them shut the fuck up.’ 

Slowly he walked towards the mare. He held his bound hands up and put a finger to his lips, and then, as best he could, signalled as his da had always done when he wanted his large brood of grandchildren to keep the noise down. The woman seemed to understand. Her eyes were huge, the whites glittering brightly against her dark skin. She whispered to the girl she had pushed behind herself. 

The mare was a lovely deep chestnut with just a blaze of white on her forehead. She was lathered in sweat, and her nostrils were widely dilated. She snorted and threw up her head at Tom’s approach, her eyes rolling to show the whites. ‘Whoa, my beauty,’ said Tom, slipping into Westron as being a less harsh-sounding language. ‘Whoa, now. It’s all right. Whoa, now.’ The mare snorted again, but there was the hint of a whinny in it now. She sidled around, but at least all four feet were on the ground. Tom didn’t walk straight towards her, but curved away a little, talking quietly all the time. He dropped the shoulder closest to her, turning away slightly, and she gave a small whinny and stepped towards him. ‘Goood girl,’ he murmured, moving slowly. ‘Goood girl.’ She took another step forward, and the woman and child slipped behind her. There was a cheer, which made the mare startle again, and a voice - curt and commanding - shouted, ‘Silence!’ Whoever he was, he was instantly obeyed, but Tom didn’t turn to look. All his mind was on staying quiet and relaxed, easing the mare’s fear. He turned away a little more and heard her shod feet striking the ground in a slow walk. ‘Here, my beauty,’ he murmured. ‘Goood girl.’ The mare blew hot air over his ear and nuzzled at his head, nibbling his hair. Very slowly, Tom reached for the trailing rope. The horse shied a little, but as Tom kept quietly talking she calmed, and he reached up to pat her shoulder - the highest he could reach as she towered over him. 

There was a noise like a flock of starlings returning to roost, and he realised it was the murmuring of the crowd. He looked over the marketplace for the first time, and saw a young man standing a little in front of the throng with his hand raised for silence. Whoever he was, he had an air of command, and it seemed the crowd agreed with Tom on that. Now that the urgency was over, the woman and child safe, there was nothing to blunt the pain, and Tom started shaking again. He felt as though his knees might give way at any moment. 

The young man walked slowly up. His black hair was plaited with gold thread, but he wore no other ornament. He was dressed in a fine, dark green tunic that opened at the front and was fastened with silver clasps, and his trousers were tucked into dark leather boots, unusual in Hafar where most men wore sandals. Above a straight nose, his brows met in a straight line. He was one of the men who had reminded Tom of Faros. 

The man took the halter rope from Tom and smiled down at him. ‘Thank you. She’s my brother’s favourite horse, and I’d not have enjoyed telling him that I let her be harmed - nor that she had caused harm, for that matter. I have heard of those who charm horses, but never seen it; I did not expect to see it done by a small slave with his hands bound and blood on his back. I have seen you before. I was intrigued then, but now - a hundred times more so.’ 

Bayos came blustering forward at that moment, and the mare jerked on her leading rope again, her front hooves leaving the ground. ‘Stay there, fool,’ said the man curtly, and Bayos froze. 

‘My lord, I am pleased that my slave has made himself useful to you. I will remove him so that your eyes need be troubled with him no more.’ 

‘He is your slave?’ 

‘Yes, my lord.’ Bayos was almost grovelling. 

‘You have also taken some hurt, I fear,’ said the lord to Bayos, and Tom noticed, with some satisfaction, that there was a large bruise over his master’s eye. ‘Please, I insist that you come to my brother’s house so that he can thank you for the diligence of your slave, and offer you some refreshment in apology for your injury.’ He beckoned over a well-dressed slave. ‘Find out who has taken hurt or had property damaged, so that we can pay them recompense. Make a list, but be sure that you see proof. Bring it to the palace when you’re done.’ He smiled down at Tom again. ‘Now, let us see if this flighty mistress will behave. Come, follow me.’ He called over two guards and sent them ahead to clear a path through the crowd, and set his own pace to that which Tom could manage, slowing as soon as Tom lagged behind. When it became clear that Tom was having difficulty even walking, the lord sent one of the guards to fetch a litter. 

Bayos touched his arm. ‘My lord, do not trouble yourself on my account.’ 

‘Let me relieve your mind. It is for your slave.’ 

Tom gawped at him, and then hurriedly shut his mouth as he realised that Bayos was doing the same. The lord squatted down to talk to him. ‘I am afraid it will be uncomfortable for you. If you cannot manage to sit amongst the cushions, then lie on your front, but the journey will be short - just across the square - and then my physician will look at you.’ 

It was indeed uncomfortable, and the dip and sway of the litter made Tom feel queasy.He was glad that it was curtained, so at least he did not have the embarrassment of being stared at. He could hear Bayos telling the lord that his small slave was deceptively dangerous. 

‘So am I,’ replied the lord, and after that there was little to be heard from Tom’s master, except his puffing to keep up with the fast pace of the litter bearers. 

Tom was grateful for the lord’s thoughtfulness, but even more grateful when the litter was set down, and he was helped out. Bayos was bowing and scraping in his most obsequious manner, reserved for his richest clients, and Tom looked up to see another of the men from the alley. The brother, he guessed, the owner of the horse. 

‘Yanos, you have found another waif and stray, I do believe.’ 

‘There was an accident, Sûlos,’ said Yanos, his hand still under Tom’s shoulder to help him stand. ‘Some careless haulier had not secured his load, and three barrels burst close to Flight. I’m afraid she ran amok in the marketplace. This slave charmed her; I have never seen anything like it. There was a woman and child in danger of being trampled, and he saved them.’ He lent close to his brother and spoke quietly, so that it was doubtful that anyone else but Tom would hear. ‘That buffoon is his master. I left the slave bound so you could see how he is treated. The blood was on his tunic before Flight escaped; I saw them pass me.’ 

Sûlos nodded, and turned to Bayos, all smiles. ‘Please, this way. My brother will see that your slave is taken care of. Come and take wine with me.’ The last thing Tom saw of Bayos was his fawning after Lord Sûlos. 

‘What is your name?’ asked Yanos, untying Tom’s hands. 

‘Tolmos, Lord.’ 

‘Then welcome to our household, Tolmos. I’ll take you to a guest room for now, until a room is prepared for you in the servants’ quarters.’ He turned to a man standing at a respectful distance. ‘Balios, fetch our physician to the Rose Room, please, and bring hot water and bandages.’ 

Tom was beginning to feel light-headed. ‘A room, my lord?’ 

‘You don’t think we’re going to let you go back with that maggot. What did you do to deserve the flogging?’ 

‘I... I threatened him with a knife. He wished to harm a child.’ 

‘Really? You know, I’m liking you more and more, Tolmos. Here, in here. Sûlos will make an offer your master can’t refuse. Steady. Let me help you off with your top, and then you can lie down.’ Yanos removed the tunic carefully, easing it away from Tom’s back before he started lifting it. Even so, Tom whimpered with pain as the cotton peeled away from his broken skin. It would probably not have been so bad had his fall not pressed the cloth into the wounds. 

The room was beginning to darken, and when Balios arrived he lit candles. The physician followed soon after and made Tom drink a bitter tasting drink before allowing him to lie face down on the bed. He did nothing more than talk to Tom for several minutes, and Tom stopped listening as the drug took hold. His mouth was dry, and his limbs felt heavy, but nothing mattered. For the first time in months, he wasn’t tormented by thoughts of what Barard was suffering, and the pain in his back faded away to nothing. He dozed and woke, dozed and woke, and blinked as he realised that daylight was streaming in through the windows. He tried to move and groaned. 

‘Good morning, Tolmos. Just lie there, and I’ll bring you some breakfast.’ 

Tom twisted his head to squint up; he remembered seeing this rather portly man before. ‘Balios?’ he mumbled. 

‘Well remembered. Yes, I’m Balios. Don’t worry; your back should heal quite quickly. My lords will come and see you after breakfast.’ He brought Tom food which could be eaten with his fingers, and helped him to sit up. 

‘Was I dreaming yesterday, Balios? I thought Lord Yanos said....’ It seemed too bizarre to even say it.

‘That you are a member of this household? Yes, you are, although he was wrong that Lord Sûlos would make an offer that Bayos bar-Mahdos could not refuse. The offer was generous, but he did refuse it, being a man whose greed rules his sense, and so you were gambled for, and cost my lord nothing. I hope you don’t feel insulted.’ 

Tom shook his head. He wasn’t at all sure what his change of circumstance would mean, but at the moment it seemed to bode well. He tried not to think how worried about him Faros and Catos must be. He struggled up as Sûlos and Yanos entered the room, but they waved him to stay where he was. 

Sûlos fingered Tom’s necklace of feathers and bead, and laughed. ‘You did not tell me that our little bird was an eagle, Yanos,’ he said. ‘How are you this morning, Tolmos?’ 

Tom just stared at him for a moment in dismay. Eagle’s feathers? He remembered the wretched prophecy. He belatedly cast his eyes down, and found his voice. ‘I am well, thank you, my lord.’ 

‘Good. No, please do not look down; we don’t expect our servants to do so. I’ve come to thank you again for your intervention with my mare.’ 

Tom looked up; Sûlos was an older version of Yanos, but both of them were young men, and the resemblance to Faros was uncanny. He cleared his throat. ‘She is well named, my lord.’

Sûlos laughed again and sat at ease in a high-backed chair. ‘Well, there is that. I would like to reward you, and so I would know what you wish for.’ 

Tom didn’t hesitate. ‘A prisoner to be released, my lord, if it is in your power.’ 

‘I will not petition for the release of a guilty man, but I can review the case to see if there was a miscarriage of justice. What is his crime?’ 

‘He is accused of spying, my lord.’ 

‘Spying! I’m afraid that is a different matter. A spy would be held in the Citadel dungeon, and my powers as a justice of the peace do not extend there. I’m sorry; I cannot help you.’ 

Tom blinked back tears and bowed his head. It had been a vain hope, but the man spoke as though he knew of the Citadel dungeon. 

‘Is there ought else I can do for you?’ 

_Catos!_ Tom looked up again. ‘There is a boy who is a slave in my old household; the master was... not treating him well. Would you have a place for him here?’ 

Sûlos and Yanos exchanged glances, and it was Yanos who spoke. ‘We would need to know more of this boy, Tolmos. We take a risk with you...’ 

‘You were right about one thing,’ said Sûlos, and Yanos raised his eyebrows. ‘You said he would not ask for his own freedom. How did you know?’ 

‘He thinks of others before himself.’ 

Sûlos nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. So, before we enquire into this boy, let us know more of you, Tolmos. Is that your real name? How does a _Halfling_ of the North come to be enslaved in Hafar?’ 

Tom gaped. ‘You know of _Halflings?’_

‘I have heard that you are a remarkable race. The great wizard Incánus told my grandfather of the deeds of your people. I do not have my grandfather’s writings here, but I know them well.’ 

Tom sat in stunned silence. He knew much of the Red Book off by heart, not from reading it, but from hearing it read. Sûlos was looking at him with a slight frown of puzzlement, and Tom found his voice, although the words were in Westron. _‘“Many are my names in many countries. Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves, Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not.”’_

‘That is a quote about Incánus, yes? But I am afraid I am no scholar. I do not speak Westron.’ 

‘It is written in my people’s history of the Great War,’ said Tom. ‘I am no scholar, either, but my father read it aloud so often, and my half-sister, as well, that the words are written in my memory. In our history Incánus is called _Gandalf.’_

‘Yes. Yes! My grandfather wrote that he had many names. “Many are my names in many countries -”’ he stopped as Tom laughed. 

‘I am sorry, my lord. That is what I just said. That is what is written in our Red Book. “In the South Incánus...”’ 

‘“In the North _Gandalf.”’_

Tom nodded, and Sûlos leant forward, his expression wistful. ‘I’ve always hoped that Incánus would come again, that I would meet him. Have _you_ ever met him?’ 

‘No, my lord. He has left Middle-earth. He left with the Elves. My father saw him go, many years before I was born.’ 

‘Incánus told the tale of the unmaking of the Ring of Doom. What do you know of that?’ 

‘That is what our Red Book is. My father finished it, but it was mostly written by the _Halfling,_ Frodo of the Ring.’ 

‘Your father saw Incánus go, your father finished the book. Who are you, Tolmos?’ 

‘I am Tolman, youngest son of Samwise Gardner.’ 

Both men sat up. _‘Samwise,’_ cried Yanos. ‘You mean, Samwise as in _Frodo_ and Samwise?’ Tom nodded, and Yanos was out of the door and gone. Sûlos looked after him with affectionate exasperation. Tom recognised it all too well. It was the sort of expression that the Took and Gardner families reserved for Barard and himself. 

‘Forgive my brother,’ Sûlos said. ‘I can guess where he has gone. He won’t be long. Tell me, this spy you ask after, who is he?’ 

‘Do you know of the other _Halflings_ who took part in the Great War?’ 

‘Mariardoc and Peereegrain.’ 

‘Meriadoc and Peregrin, my lord. It is the youngest son of Peregrin who is held as a spy.’ 

‘And is he?’ 

‘No, my lord. He was invited here to open trade negotiations with Minas Tirith.’ 

‘And you, what about you? Are you a spy?’ 

‘No, my lord. I came following my friend. I was set upon and taken prisoner, and made a slave.’ 

Yanos came bursting back in at that moment, followed by another thickset man wearing trousers and a leather apron. A smith, it seemed. ‘Lean forward, good sir,’ he said, and Tom was so surprised to be called “good sir” that he did so without any thought as to why. The next moment he gagged slightly as the metal collar around his neck was pulled tight. 

‘Patience, Tolman,’ said Yanos. ‘He will be as quick as he can.’ The movement of the collar and the sound of metal on metal told Tom what was happening. He was being cut free! He winced as the file caught his skin, and then the hateful ring fell loose. Carefully he prised it off and slipped from the bed. He knelt in front of Sûlos to bow before him. Ignoring the pain as the movement stretched his broken skin, he kissed the lord’s feet, then repeated the obeisance to Yanos. 

‘I am your servant, my lords.’ 

‘You honour us, Tolman bar-Samwise. I have many questions, _many_ questions, but first tell me of this boy you would have us free.’ 

‘I think you would wish him free, my lords. I think there are two who you would wish free from that household.’ It was a risk, but Gandalf would not have had dealings with a House that was not honourable, and there was the remarkable resemblance. 

‘And why is that?’ 

‘Catos is a slave because his father supported the House of the Sun.’ 

‘And this concerns us because -?’ 

‘You are lords of the House of the Sun.’ 

There was silence in the room, and then Sûlos spoke. ‘We are of the House of the Morning Star.’ 

‘The star that gives way to the sun, once the sun is bright in the sky,’ said Tom. 

Sûlos stared at him. ‘I give way to no man,’ he said quietly, but Yanos laughed, breaking the tension in the room. 

‘We must hope that there are not those in Daros’s court who think like this _Halfling,_ brother.’ His expression sobered. ‘Is this common talk, Tolman?’ 

‘I have heard rumour and speculation that you are of the House of the Sun.’ 

‘Then let me assure you. We are the House of the Morning Star.’ 

‘Of course, my lords. I stand corrected.’ 

‘The boy will be freed. What of the other?’ 

‘He _is_ of the House of the Sun, my lords.’ 

‘What!’ Yanos jumped up, and Sûlos’s knuckles whitened as his hands tightened around the armrests of the chair. ‘You are sure of this, Tolman? There are few lines left extant of that House; I believed I knew them all.’ 

‘I see no reason why he would lie to me. He knows the prophecy of the House, and he said orcs came burning the homes of his forefathers - when the House of the Eye first arose. He looks like you.’ 

Sûlos stood. ‘I have a mind to buy some jewellery, brother. Will you come with me?’ 

‘Gladly. Tolman, can we do you the discourtesy of asking you to stay in your room?’ Tom nodded; he had no wish to do anything very much except lie down. He spent some time after he had been left alone wondering if these lords could gain him entry to the Citadel. Balios brought him lunch, and afterwards the physician came and drugged him to change his dressings and cleanse his wounds. He drifted in and out of sleep, and was only half aware of the pitch of Catos’s voice raised in excitement. 

‘Is he all right? Truly?’ 

‘Yes, truly. My physician says he should get up and move around later. If you wish, you may sit with him until then. Balios will bring you refreshment. Faros, will you come with me?’ 

‘Catos,’ Tom mumbled as their fingers twined together. 

‘Yes. It’s me. I’m here.’ There was a giggle, reassuring in its familiarity. ‘Faros says it’s true that imps are trouble, but I think you’re my lucky charm. You should have heard the uproar when the master came home without you...’ 

Tom slipped back and forth between sleep and wakefulness. ‘Do you ever stop talking?’ he mumbled as he woke to find Catos still chattered on. 

‘I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet.’ 

‘No, ’sgood. I like hearing you. I just... I think this medicine’s stronger than a _hobbit_ needs.’ Already his vision was blurring out of focus again, and he felt as though he were floating. Had he not felt so safe it would have been an unpleasant experience, but he remembered Aragorn’s words. ‘Honourable men,’ he mumbled, and slipped back into dreams of flying. He wasn’t riding an eagle, he _was_ an eagle, and the world spread out beneath him, cold and grey without Barard. Suddenly a line of red blazed out along the eastern horizon. The sun was rising on a new day. 

He opened his eyes to painted roses climbing over the walls, and his thoughts turned to the Bag End rose garden. Did his family fear him dead already? The only news they would have in Gondor was that he had arrived in Umbar. Well, he had come close to death. He had tempted fate, and fate had spared him - spared him and freed him and given him a new source of information, maybe even a means to enter the Citadel. 

Qismat. 

A light cotton sheet covered Tom's back, and he pushed himself up beneath it, turning to sit. His back throbbed painfully, but it was bearable. He smiled as he saw Faros dozing in the high-backed chair. Catos was sprawled asleep in the man’s lap, one arm around his neck. The youngster was really far too tall for this, and his feet rested on the floor, but Tom was glad that the experience with Bayos had not withered the boy's affection for and trust of Faros. 

Faros opened his eyes and smiled widely at Tom. He turned his head to kiss Catos on the forehead. ‘He’s awake, little one.’ 

Catos bounced up, with no discernible adjustment between sleeping and waking that Tom could see. ‘Oh, good. Is supper ready?’ 

‘Supper is waiting on news of Tolm’s being awake; so no, not yet. Do you want to run and tell them in the kitchens?’ 

Catos went rushing out, and Tom struggled to his feet. Clean clothes of the type worn by slaves were laid out at the foot of the bed, and his hand strayed to his neck. The leather thong with feathers and beads met his questing fingers, but no metal ring. It wasn’t a dream; the collar was gone. He pulled on the familiar trousers, and Faros helped him with the tunic. 

‘You find trouble, like the sparks fly upwards,’ said Faros. ‘But I’m not sure that I can thank you enough for what you did for Catos. I thought we would lose you, my friend, and I blamed myself for not speaking out.’ 

Tom tugged at the tunic, straightening it, and studied Faros’s face. ‘But you did speak out.’ 

‘And yet it seems I could - should - have spoken out before.’ Faros sighed, then gave Tom a rueful smile. ‘Catos was beside himself when you didn’t come back, and I feared the worst.’ 

Catos came bouncing back into the room at that moment, and he grinned at Faros. ‘You were in tears. Supper’s in an hour, and my lord Yanos says it would be best if Tolm walked a little, but just in the palace and grounds. It’s _huge._ I never realised, did you? I mean, I know the old palace is a big building, but I never realised there was so much behind it. They have _loads_ of horses stabled here, and hundreds of men -’ 

‘And that is something to keep quiet about, I would judge,’ said Faros. 

‘I’m not _that_ stupid,’ retorted Catos. ‘It’s just Tolm I’m telling. They wanted to know all about my grandfather. What did they want to talk to you about? You wouldn’t tell me when Tolm was asleep.’ 

’I didn’t want to disturb him. They took me to their archivist, and I had to tell him everything I remembered about my family, all the stories I’ve been told, anything and everything - Catos! come back! Tolm can’t go that fast!’ Faros sighed. ‘He’s been so excited since he found we were joining you, I’ve no idea how he sat quietly with you all afternoon.’ 

Tom laughed. ‘He didn’t. Every time I woke up he was talking.’ 

They followed Catos out of the Rose Room and into a corridor dimly lit by natural light. The walls were just bare red stone, with windows set in high arches. A few still had shutters closed to keep out the heat of day, but most were thrown open to catch the evening breezes that set in late in the day. Through them Tom saw a large garden within the palace, overlooked by windows on all sides. He looked up at Faros walking beside him. ‘How did they persuade the family to let you go?’ 

‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked. I think... I think a lot of money changed hands. I hope they think I’m worth it. I asked what my duties are to be, and they told me there was time enough to worry about that later.’ 

Catos ran ahead to a corner and stood waiting for them, jigging from foot to foot. ‘Come and see,’ he called, but Tom had stopped by a side door, arched like the windows, that opened onto the garden. There was still plenty of light in the sky, but he stepped out into restful shade. He brushed his hands through a plant that reminded him of lavender; the smell was less mellow, sharper and greener to Tom’s way of thinking, but just as aromatic. Moths fluttered over the deep blue flowers, drawing Tom farther along the path, and the humming of bees was loud on the air. He suddenly realised this was a kitchen and herb garden. The bush by the door was old and woody, but most of the garden was new-planted, with tiny parcels of thyme between the paving stones promising to spread out across the path in a scented carpet. He closed his eyes, and the smell transported him back to the Downs in the distant Shire.

_Barard halted his pony on the path that wound down the steep slope of the hill. Here the wind was cut off just as though it hadn’t blown their hair wildly, whipping it into their faces as they followed the bridleway along the ridge of the Downs. The sun had started to dip below its noonday height, and without the wind the day was warm. The bleating of sheep and the song of a lark were all part of the familiar landscape. ‘Let’s stop for lunch here,’ he said, turning in his saddle to look back at Tom._

_Tom nodded and swung down from his pony onto the close-cropped grass. They carried their packs a little way from the path, letting their ponies graze at will, and settled down on the downland turf. Thyme grew wild here, grazed as close as the grass, and bees were moving from tiny flower to tiny flower. The smell of the herb, bruised by their feet, hung around them. They ate their food looking out over the weald towards the haze of the Tower Hills in the distance. It was the first time they had made the journey to Ellie’s on their own. Tom was feeling content and more than a little drowsy: the innkeeper in Michel Delving had taken it as read that they would want to share a room to keep down the cost._

_Barard finished the meat pasty that the innkeeper’s wife had supplied and shifted to sit just below Tom on the slope. He leant back, his head resting against Tom’s shoulder, and Tom wrapped his arms around Barard’s chest and closed his eyes in the warmth of the afternoon sun. The scent of the thyme was heavy on the air. This was... this was happiness._

_‘Tom?’_

_‘Mmm?’_

_‘Father is going to Minas Tirith soon, in a month or so.’_

_Tom’s eyes flew open. ‘Would he take us? Would you want to go?’_

_Barard tilted his head up to kiss Tom. ‘Yes, of course. As long as you want to go, love. I’m sure Father will take us if we ask.’_

‘Tolm!’ Catos broke through his reverie. ‘You’re supposed to be walking, Lord Yanos said, not standing with your eyes closed, looking foolish. _Please_ come and look!

‘Let him be, Catos.’ 

Tom opened his eyes and looked up at Faros, trying to stop his tears from flowing, but his face must have portrayed how he was feeling; every good memory of Barard had him in tears, and as for bad memories - well, there weren’t any. Faros knelt on one knee and took him in his arms, and Tom felt him hesitate as he worked out the best way to avoid the whip wounds. Tom laid his head against Faros’s shoulder, grieving inside. Just that smell of thyme was all that was needed for Barard to be _there_ with him. Faros didn’t say anything, or make any move to let Tom go, and his silent understanding was a comfort all in itself. 

Not until Tom pulled free did Faros stand up. ‘Did you hear any news of your Barard, while you were in the prison?’ he asked gently. 

‘No, but the lord Sûlos tells me that he is likely to be in the Citadel dungeon.’ 

Faros sighed, avoiding eye contact with Tom. 

‘You think that means he’s dead.’ A flat statement. 

‘I fear that means, short of the overthrow of Daros, we won’t ever know.’ 

Catos cleared his throat. ‘I wish you’d come and look.’ 

Faros and Tom ignored him, and Tom’s anger flared up. ‘So, it’s no different, is it?’ he shouted. ‘We didn’t know where he is and whether he’s alive, and we still don’t know.’ 

‘Pleeease, will you just come and look?’ 

Tom shrugged. He glared at Faros, and stalked back through the garden. He had allowed himself to believe that somehow things would be different; a small seed of hope had burgeoned, only to wither in the dust. Anger blunted the pain, but he managed to stop himself from turning that anger on Catos. He would see what the boy wanted to show him so badly, and even feign an interest. 

They followed Catos around a corner and through an archway into a wide open space. Like the garden, it was surrounded on all sides by the high walls of the palace, and opening directly onto it were barracks, stables, kitchens, and workshops. Tom could see forges for farrier and swordsmith, along with a saddler, carpenter and bowyer. Across the square, a tall archway framed great wooden gates, heavily barred. Tom stood amazed, no pretence of interest necessary. Catos had not, as he had thought, exaggerated the number of men; this was a small army. Did Daros know? And were they here for defence? Or to bring war to Hafar? Tom’s mind was racing as they wandered around the periphery. Just what was Sûlos planning? He watched the bowyer working on a flat bow, ideal for using from a horse - or in confined areas. The archers of Gondor preferred longbows, but Legolas always used a recurved flatbow with deadly accuracy. 

There was a cough behind them, making them all jump guiltily, not sure if they were allowed there. It was Balios. He bowed as they turned. ‘Lord Sûlos begs me tell you that supper is almost ready. If you would be so good as to follow me.’ He led them across the square, but not to some soldiers’ or servants’ mess; he stopped at one of the forges. 

The blacksmith nodded to Tom. ‘I have your collar finished,’ he said with a smile, and reached for the hated object. It had been altered to be fastened with a light chain. Tom’s heart sank. He had misunderstood. 

‘Never mind that now,’ said Balios. ‘He has been asked not to leave the palace, so it will not be needed yet. There are two more collars to remove, if you please.’‘That is a task that always pleases me,’ said the blacksmith. ‘Let me get my file. When are they needed for? Is there a hurry? I can work on them after supper.’ 

‘Tomorrow will be soon enough,’ said Balios as the smith got to work. 

‘So, we don’t have to wear them in the palace?’ asked Tom hopefully. 

‘No, indeed!’ Balios looked rather shocked. ‘Only when you go outside.’As the rings were removed from first Catos, and then Faros, they each rubbed a hand around their necks, but otherwise their reactions were quite different. Catos jumped up and down, whooping, but Faros just looked stunned. Tom remembered his own feeling of disbelief. How much stranger it must be for these two who had been born to wear them. 

Balios smiled at them. ‘Good. Good. Now this way, if you please. We will have new clothes for you as soon as possible, but no one will think the worse of you for now.’ Puzzled, they followed him back through the palace. There were glimpses of other squares, mostly laid to gardens, with the music of water sometimes loud to hear. The impression Tom got was of a palace built around six open spaces, like the six dots on a gaming dice, but it was hard to be sure as they followed Balios along corridors and around corners. He knew from the frontage on the market square that the palace was built on three stories, and the dining room that Balios bowed them into was on the first floor. The room was dominated by a large table of some dark, polished wood laid with silver, fine linens, and many candles. The setting was rich, although many of the men who stood waiting there were simply dressed. Faros and Catos stood hesitating on the threshold. 

‘Please, come and join us,’ said Sûlos stepping forward. He held out a hand. ‘Faros, will you sit by my side?’ 

Faros slipped to his knees and made his obeisance. ‘You are my master,’ he said simply as he stood. ‘If you command it, I will do so, but it is more fitting that I wait on you.’ 

‘Then I do command it, but in future I hope you will sit by me out of choice. Catos, sit by my brother. Tolman, please, take a seat next to Catos.’ Balios moved forward smoothly, carrying cushions from somewhere for Tom, and only when they were seated with Sûlos and Yanos, did the rest of the company sit. It seemed they were honoured guests. 

Yanos was asking Catos questions, and Tom turned to the man at his other side. He recognised the hook nose. ‘I have seen you before,’ he said. 

‘In an unspeakably filthy alley,’ answered the man, with a smile. ‘My name is Tarlos. I am cousin to Sûlos and Yanos, and you are Tolman the _Halfling._ What were you doing there?’ 

‘Learning all the ways of the city.’ 

‘Yes, that is always useful,’ said Tarlos gravely. 

‘And you? What were you doing?’ 

‘A matter of justice. Even the poorest deserve justice, don’t you think?’ 

Tom nodded. He kept half an ear on Catos, who was chattering away to Yanos with tales of the south, but Tarlos was more interested in what Tom could tell him of the Shire. The man was an attentive listener, nudging the conversation with well placed questions, and Tom found himself talking almost as much as Catos. The food was excellent, and Tom had no problem about being served by others, but he could see that Faros was not at ease. Catos just seemed to take everything as it came, enjoying the moment, but Faros was probably as doubtful as Tom regarding his role in the household, and he was clearly awed by sitting next to so great a lord as Sûlos. 

None of those serving wore a collar, although most were dressed in the traditional garb of slaves. Tarlos thanked the man serving them, and beckoned him to lean closer. ‘I have read that _Halflings_ have prodigious appetites,’ he said. ‘See that our small guest’s plate is kept well filled.’ 

‘My lord,’ said Tom. ‘What am I here? A slave, a servant, a guest? I am confused.’ 

‘An honoured guest, Tolman bar-Samwise.’ 

‘And yet I am still to have a collar?’ 

‘The collar is an illusion.’ 

‘Forgive me, but it looked real enough to me.’ 

‘Not an illusion to you. An illusion for the outside world. You came in a slave; you should be seen to go out a slave. Otherwise there is danger.’ 

‘For who?’ 

‘For us all.’ 

‘How many slaves are there here?’ 

‘None.’ 

‘None! What about Balios, for instance?’ 

‘He is a trusted servant of the House. He has always been a freeman; others who are not as fortunate have bought their freedom.’ 

‘With what?’ 

‘With the wages they are paid.’ 

‘I heard that Lord Sûlos brought all his... servants with him.’ 

‘Yes. We must trust those around us.’ 

‘But now you have three of us here who you know little about?’ 

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, and there does come a point when one must bestow trust and hope that it is justified. How is it in your _Shi-er,_ do you have slaves?’ 

The talked turned back to hobbit customs until the servants cleared the table, set out fruit and nuts and small sweets, and brought coffee. They bowed to Sûlos and departed. The only servant to remain was Balios, and he closed the doors and came to stand behind Sûlos. 

‘My lords,’ said Sûlos. ‘Introductions should in courtesy have come first, but I think, at the present time, it is wise to restrict knowledge to those here present.’ There was a murmur and shifting of those seated around the table, and Sûlos allowed it to die into silence before he continued. He laid a hand on Faros’s shoulder and smiled. ‘First, allow me to introduce Lord Faros, of the House of the Sun. Indeed, all the evidence shows that he is descended in direct line from Julos, by the youngest son, Julios. If, as he believes, his father is dead, then, my lords, he _is_ the Sun.’ A buzz of murmured conversation rose around the table. Faros just stared at Sûlos in shocked silence. 

Catos giggled. ‘He called him a lord,’ he whispered to Tom. Tom shushed him, but there was no real need, because the next introduction left Catos as speechless as Faros. 

‘And this is Lord Catos, of the House of the White Tree, and - I believe most of you are familiar with my grandfather’s writings - this is the _Halfling,_ Tolman bar-Samwise, without whose great bravery we would most likely still be under the yoke of Mordor.’ 

Catos found his voice. Even the shock of finding himself introduced as a lord did not curb that for long, it seemed, although it wavered from uncharacteristically deep and back to his boyish pitch. ‘You mean, Tolm is someone famous?’ 

‘No,’ said Tom quietly. ‘My father is famous, there is a difference.’ 

‘There is indeed,’ said Sûlos, addressing not Tom, but Catos. ‘Each generation must show its own worth. All the evidence shows that you have the title of your house, but you must gain the respect of those who would serve you.’ 

Catos subsided back into silence, and a man at the far end of the table spoke. ‘And may we know the rights of these claims, the greater as well as the lesser, my lord?’ 

Sûlos inclined his head. ‘Of course, but before we turn to those matters, and hear the day’s reports, I will say that _I_ am satisfied as to the claims.’ He turned to Faros. ‘Our Houses were ever as brothers. Will you make alliance with me?’ 

Faros pushed back his chair to kneel on one knee before Sûlos. ‘I cannot speak for the House of the Sun, but you have my allegiance, lord, for what it is worth.’ 

‘I do not ask for you allegiance yet, Faros. I ask for your alliance.’ 

‘Then you have it. Your brother is my brother, your cause is my cause, your enemy is my enemy.’ 

There was a sigh of satisfaction from those seated around the table, and Tom felt he had missed some wider significance. ‘At least he knows the ways of the House, or has he been schooled in it?’ said the man next to Tarlos, but it was said privately. Tom looked at Tarlos, interested to hear his reply. 

‘I can assure you that Lord Faros has had no prompting in this.’ 

‘Then someone has taught him well.’ 

Faros stood, and Balios handed him a small knife. The handle was polished bone, and the blade shone brightly in the candle light. Faros didn’t hesitate; he took the knife and nicked his palm, then passed the knife to Sûlos, who did the same. They pressed palm to palm. ‘Your brother is my brother, your cause is my cause, your enemy is my enemy,’ said Sûlos. ‘Let those who would doubt you, remember it.’ 

‘Can I do that?’ asked Catos, jumping up. 

Yanos put a hand on the boy’s arm. ‘Peace! You are not of age, but your guardian can do it for you.’ 

Catos’s face fell. ‘Who is my guardian?’ 

‘That must be decided,’ said Sûlos. He looked around the table. ‘We have more than the ten lords required by law. Whom would you choose, Catos?’ 

‘I get to choose?’ 

‘No, I’m sorry, I did not mean to mislead you. You may express a preference, and this council will bear that in mind.’ 

‘I’d choose Faros, then. If... if he doesn’t mind.’ 

‘If I am allowed to be your guardian, I would be honoured.’ 

Sûlos nodded. ‘Then I would like to propose Lord Faros as guardian to the House of the White Tree.’ 

‘And I second that,’ said Tarlos quickly, beating several others in doing so. 

‘Does any here raise voice against this? No? Then let the record show the names of all lords present. Now, before we go further, Catos, do you understand you are bound by the alliances of your guardian?’ Catos nodded; he looked nervous. ‘Good. Then understand you are bound to keep silent on all matters discussed here. For your safety and that of your guardian, when you leave this building, you will do so as Catos, my slave. You must not mention to any outside this room who you are, nor who Faros is.’ 

‘I won’t say a word, I swear by the Light.’ 

‘Tolman?’ 

‘By the light of Elbereth, I will speak to no other of what I hear.’ 

‘Then let us hear the reports, and first let me ask the Archivist to speak.’ 

A small, elderly man shuffled a pile of papers and stood in fussy self-importance. ‘I have questioned both Lord Faros and Lord Catos closely, my lords,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘It is difficult when a House has been sold into slavery. The slaves can only pass on spoken records, and sons are often separated from their families by the time they are eight or ten years of age, but even the lesser branches have taken pains to pass what they could from generation to generation. The lord Catos was the more straightforward, since we are only looking back three generations, and I for one remember his grandfather, and mourn to hear of his father’s untimely death. However, my lord Faros has given us enough of his family history for me to be sure that he is descended in unbroken line over five generations from Julios, youngest son of our last true King, Julos. As you know, Julios perished, but his young son, born posthumously, was sent to a place of safety. Sadly, it proved quite otherwise, but in the raids and capture that followed, the boy’s identity was not revealed, and so he survived. Lord Faros therefore shares a common heritage with Lords Sûlos, Yanos and Tarlos, since all four have descended from King Julos, but of course, I hardly need to say that there is no question over the right of Sûlos to claim the kingship.’ He sat down looking very satisfied with himself. 

Tom would have liked to have seen it all laid out in a family tree since the archivist was starting from a position of assuming his audience knew something of the matter. He smiled at the man’s enthusiasm for his subject - he would have made a good hobbit - but Tom didn’t at all understand how Faros could be the head of the House of the Sun and yet not be considered a rival to Sûlos. 

‘Thank you, Archivist,’ said Sûlos. ‘Tarlos, what have you learnt today?’ 

Tom’s table companion stood. ‘I have learnt many things today, cousin, including the fact that _Halflings_ make excellent dining companions.’ He smiled down at Tom before turning his attention back to Sûlos. ‘I believe you are right to accept his claim to be the son of Samwise. Now, as to other business, I have still not been able to find out where Daros has stationed his third army, and three scouts have failed to return. They can give little information to our enemies, but they are southerners, and that alone will point the finger at us. Daros is not pleased at your popularity, Sûlos, and I would advise another gift to remind him that your assassination will halt the flow of your wealth into the city. He is not blind to the fact that even with the help of Sauron’s agents, his forefathers were unable to get past our mountain fortresses to overrun our lands, and I have heard that he is behind hand with paying his army.’ 

‘So, I should fund his army,’ said Sûlos, his mouth twitching with amusement. 

‘No. Not at all, although we should have funds ready to pay them if they transfer allegiance to us. One more thing. In the city there is a growing rumour of the prophecy of bar-Ard; it is not my doing, and it seems to be most current amongst the slaves. I am not sure, at this time, if it is a good or bad thing. On the one hand it may put Daros further on his guard, but on the other, it may make the populace more willing to move with us, especially if we can find some way to work the prophecy to our advantage.’ Tarlos sat down, and report followed report, mostly relating to troop movements and provisions. Catos was not pleased when the Steward of the Palace stood up and announced arrangements for lessons in reading and writing, although he was mollified when he found there would also be horsemanship and sword practice. 

‘Lord Faros is well versed in the arts of the pen, but I would humbly suggest that he joins his ward in all other lessons,’ said the Steward. 

‘But I do not wish to fight,’ said Faros, and there was sudden silence around the table that was broken by Sûlos. 

‘A man does not need to wield a sword to be a leader; it is only necessary that he should inspire others to do so. However, a sword may be used in defence, and then a life may hang on skills patiently learnt. We will talk more of this later, Faros; I hope you, Lord Catos and Tolman will join me in my private rooms for a nightcap. Is there any other news to report? Good, then I wish you goodnight, my lords.’ He stood, taking Faros by the arm, and Yanos and Tarlos fell in behind with Catos and Tolman. The room to which they retired was like a cave of riches from one of Catos’s stories. It was full of dark wood and rich wall hangings in deep colours. The floor was covered in a thick, soft carpet patterned in shades of red, and couches were provided for guests to recline on. Balios brought drinks for them, and Tom sat cross-legged on his couch, sipping red wine. He was feeling tired, and his wounds were aching. 

There was some general talk, and then Sûlos turned to his cousin. ‘Come, Tarlos, I know that look. What else have you found out today?’ 

Tarlos shifted on his couch and looked at Tom. ‘I have learnt much about _Halflings,_ including the fact that it is not uncommon for them to bond for life in the way of the Royal Swans who pine and die when their mate is lost. I have further learnt that Tolman is so bonded to the one he seeks.’ 

Tom looked at the man in horror. ‘But,’ he started to protest, ‘I never said -’ 

‘Peace, Tolman,’ said Sûlos. ‘I think Tarlos charms knowledge from the air. Is it true that the one you seek is your life-love?’ Tom nodded, as mute suddenly as the swans to which he had been compared. 

Tarlos took a sip of his wine. ‘I have also learnt that for some reason Tolman avoids his name, even when I ask outright, and furthermore, he is not named in the dungeon where he is held, but known only as the Imp.’ 

Tom jerked round so suddenly to stare at Tarlos that he nearly fell off the couch. ‘You have found him? He... he’s alive?’ 

‘Yes, he is alive, but I am afraid he does not fare well. He is kept apart, alone - never good for the mind - and he eats little.’ 

‘You have seen him?’ Tom’s voice was barely audible to himself, but Tarlos shook his head. 

‘I have spoken to one who has seen him.’ 

‘Today?’ 

‘Yes. Sûlos asked me to find some news for you.’ 

Tom bowed his head; he was trembling violently, and his wine slopped in the glass. All his defences tumbled into dust, and there was only raw _feeling_ as joy that Barard was alive mixed with horror. _Alone!_ An arm supported him, and the glass was taken from his unresisting fingers. _He does not fare well!_

He was lifted, and knew it was Faros by the quiet voice talking to him, even though the world was black around him. _Barard!_

‘Do _you_ know his name, Faros?’ 

‘Yes, but if Tolm chooses not to tell...’ 

Tom clutched blindly at Faros. So you’re saying, short of the overthrow of the High King, we won’t ever know? ‘Barard,’ he whispered. ‘His name is bar-Ard.’ 


	9. Chapter 9

Tom sat at the edge of the barrack square and wriggled his shoulders, trying to ease the discomfort of his freshly changed dressings. It was too hot to have such close confinement around his chest. His wounds were healing quickly, and he had to force himself not to rub his back against the brick wall behind him to ease the itch. It was at least something to think about, apart from the dullness inside. A shadow fell across his feet, and he looked up to find Tarlos standing over him. 

‘May I join you?’ 

‘Of course.’ Tom patted the dusty ground beside him, and Tarlos lowered himself down to sit cross-legged. 

‘Catos has a natural aptitude.’ 

Tom followed his gaze to where the swordmaster was putting Catos through an elementary drill. ‘Yes. I agree. He got the feel and balance of the sword very quickly, and holds it as though it is there to do his bidding. Poor Faros looks as though his sword might bite him; he grips it too tight, his arm is too rigid.’ 

Tarlos put back his head and laughed, and Tom saw Faros glance their way. He could not have heard what Tom was saying, but he shrugged as though to say, _I know, this is laughable,_ and was rapped on the knuckles by his instructor for not paying attention. 

‘So,’ said Tarlos, still laughing, ‘you are full of surprises. Are you telling me that you are a swordsman?’ 

‘I have some training.’ 

‘But not in the _Shi-er,_ unless I have misunderstood.’ 

‘No. I trained with the Tower Guard of Minas Tirith.’ 

Tarlos stopped looking amused and gaped at him. ‘You were in the Tower Guard? The king’s elite?’ 

‘No. I just trained with them.’

‘So, you’ve seen their king? What’s he like?’

‘A just man, and fair.’ Tom sighed at the memory of his last evening with Elessar, and tilted his head to look at Tarlos again. ‘He told me there were honourable men in Harad. I believe I have found them.’ 

Tarlos bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Have you spoken with him often?’ 

‘Yes. The last time I saw him was when he came to wish me well on my quest for Barard. He would have liked to have prevented me leaving, but for friendship’s sake he did what he could to aid me.’ Tom reached up and tapped Tarlos under the chin. ‘You’ll catch a fly,’ he said, and Tarlos hastily shut his mouth. 

‘I shouldn’t be surprised that you are a friend of the northern king. Your father must have been well known to him.’ 

Tom drew patterns in the dust with his fingers. This was not the conversation he was wanting to have with Tarlos. ‘Yes, he was.’ He obliterated the criss-cross pattern of vertical and horizontal lines with the palm of his hand. ‘Tell me what you know of Barard.’ 

Tarlos hesitated, glancing towards Faros and Catos, and Tom guessed he was reassuring himself that Faros was there to pick up the pieces. ‘I found one of the kitchen slaves who takes food down to the dungeon. I was surprised that she had actually seen him. I would have expected the guards to take the food around, but it seems your Barard always tries to attack them, even chained as he is. They found that whenever a woman slave came to tend him after a beating, he remained quiet, so they made the kitchen girls take the food to him.’ 

With a great effort, Tom kept his voice calm. ‘So he’s chained? Beaten?’ 

‘Yes to the first, not so often now to the second. He was beaten every time he offered violence. The guards mostly just look in on him now and again, and leave the feeding and removal of bodily wastes to the slave girls, but my contact said that she still sometimes finds he has been whipped or beaten.’ He touched Tom’s shoulder as Tom stared unseeing up into the clear blue of the sky. ‘The slave girls were frightened to go in to him at first, but now they do what they can for him. If they talk, the guards call them out, and she said he doesn’t have much of the language anyway, but they’ve taken to going down in pairs to carry hot water as well as food, so they can clean him and bathe his sores. They tried sneaking things in - a cushion, for instance, to be a pillow and to prevent damage where he sits - but the things disappeared, and usually Barard was beaten for it, so they stopped. They just take him better food now, fresh fruit for instance, but they can’t coax him to eat much, and he’s very thin. She said she didn’t think he could offer violence to a fly.’ 

Tom looked back to Tarlos, not able to see the man’s expression after the glare of the sky. ‘Is there much light?’ 

‘I don’t think so. She said it’s hard to see - there’s just one small window high in the wall - but if there’s a strip of sunlight that he can reach, he sits in it. She said that then they can see he has reddish hair. She was fascinated by that, and by his skin colour: she’d never seen any but black hair and brown skin before.’ 

‘So his head isn’t shaved?’ 

‘No, the guards understandably won’t allow scissors or knives near him. By the time the girls started tending him, his hair was already too matted to comb.’ 

‘Where does he sleep?’

‘On straw.’

‘You mean a pallet?’

‘No. I mean just loose straw.’ 

Tom pulled his knees in close to his body and laid his forehead on them. He had started to shake again, and he felt physically sick. Superimposed over the image that Tarlos painted was Barard sprawled naked on their bed. Sunlight streamed through the window to light up the warm depths of red-gold in his hair. His arms were open wide to invite Tom to join him, his pale skin glowing in the morning sun. His frame was as lithe as when he was a tween, although muscles had become better defined as he matured; now they bunched across his belly as he sat up. _‘For Eru’s sake, Tom. Is this a new way of making love? Are you going to stand there until I come just looking at you?’_

‘You have more news for Tolm?’ Faros’s voice sounded close, yet far away from Tom’s small world of darkness. 

‘No, nothing new. He wanted to know everything I could tell about Barard’s captivity.’ 

‘And you _told_ him?’ 

‘He is not a child, Faros.’ 

‘No, he’s not, but you have not sat up with him all night, wishing you could give him some comfort, and you don’t know that he only slept a little towards dawn.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Tom. He felt Faros settle beside him, and the familiar weight of the man’s arm around his shoulders. 

‘Nothing to be sorry for, little bird. That’s what friends are for. I wasn't meaning I begrudge you my sleep, but I’m not sure that your knowing everything is wise.’ 

Tom lifted his head and leaned against Faros. He wasn’t sure what he would have done without the quiet understanding and gentle support that Faros gave him, but his friend was wrong here. He rubbed his sleeve over his face and took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘You said yourself you couldn’t imagine what it would be like, not to know what had happened to Patros.’ 

‘Well, yes, but I would spare you the details. You’ve been quiet and introspective since you got up, and now you’re looking haggard and sick.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tarlos. 

Tom shook his head. ‘No, don’t be. I needed to know. Can I speak to the slave girl?’ 

‘I don’t think that’s wise. I try to avoid talking to casual contacts like that on a regular basis, to avoid arousing suspicion. I simply talked to the girl as though in idle curiosity, and I think we need to be careful about doing more. I could take you into the Citadel as my slave, but the presence of a _Halfling_ might link the word “spy” to my name, and in turn we would all be under suspicion.’ He hesitated. ‘More suspicion, that is, since I doubt Daros trusts us, but we don’t want to be forced to move before all is ready.’ 

‘Is there any chance of rescuing him?’ 

‘The chance lies in our success, and there are too many unknowns to be certain of that. We may be on a fool’s errand; we may become fellow prisoners with Barard. Sûlos believes the time is right, but you notice his wives and sons are not here, and neither are Yanos’s wife and babe. The longer we wait, the more ready we’ll be, but the more chance that Daros will gain some evidence and move against us. Don’t repay us by becoming that evidence, Tolman. Don’t do anything rash.’ 

‘I need to be doing something.’ 

‘Go and give Catos a lesson. He’s getting too cocky.’ Tarlos nodded to where the boy was twirling his sword. ‘While he’s showing off like that, his opponent will be under his guard to open him from arsehole to breakfast. When lessons are finished you may leave the palace any time you wish, just remember to go as slaves. Let Balios know where you’re going, and if you can bring me word of any rumours that are current, then so much the better.’ 

Tom pushed himself up with a hand on Faros’s shoulder. Tarlos made no move, and Tom guessed the man was as interested in seeing how a Halfling trained by the Tower Guard handled a sword as in seeing Catos shown some substance over style. ‘I can’t use your swords,’ he said. ‘They’re too long for me.’ 

Tarlos reached down to his right boot and pulled out a knife, but Tom shook his head. ‘Too short, too narrow,’ he said. He left them and angled across the square to the swordsmith’s, where he found exactly the knife he was looking for. The smith was reheating a sword he had completed, tempering it to reduce its brittleness, and he just nodded and waved a hand at Tom’s request. 

Catos looked surprised when Tom joined him. ‘Have you come to learn as well?’ he asked. ‘It’s easy, look.’ He twirled his sword, and then yelped and shook his wrist as the sword flew from his hand. His eyes widened as Tom’s sword point appeared at his throat. 

Tom lowered his arm and stepped back. ‘Now. We’ll try that again, shall we?’ he said. 

‘But my sword’s blunt, and yours is really sharp!’ 

‘Good. I’d rather not have an ear cut off. Trust me, I won’t hurt you, except a smack with the flat if you let your guard down.’ He disarmed Catos three times in quick succession, but the fourth time Catos had got the measure of what Tom was doing; he lasted a little longer, until his sword flew from his grasp and landed with a clang in the dust again. Catos stood panting, looking as though he might cry from vexation. Tom patted his hand. ‘That was much better. You have a lot to learn, but Tarlos and I are agree you have a natural ability.’ 

Catos slowly picked up his sword. ‘I do?’ 

‘Yes. Just remember - never show off.’ Tom took his sword back to the smith, but the man shook his head. 

‘Yours, if you want it. Or I’ll make you one to order.’

‘This is good. Well balanced.’

‘Then take this sheath for it, yes?’

‘Thank you. May I have a couple of knives, as well? I don’t see anything small enough - ’ 

‘Here.’ The swordsmith produced a scrap of cotton cloth, used to polish the swords, and a piece of charcoal. Tom spread the cloth out and drew the blades he wanted in actual size. The man wiped sweat from his eyes and nodded. ‘No problem. I’ll make those for you.’ 

Catos waylaid Tom as he returned to watch the lesson continue. There was a gleam in his eye that gave away some devilment. ‘I think I could learn a lot watching you,’ he said, all innocence. ‘Will you give me a demonstration?’ 

Tom looked around. Tarlos had gone, but there was a small crowd of men gathered; one topped his companions by almost a head. ‘And if I agree, you will pit me with someone who has twice my reach. What will you learn from that, apart from _Halflings_ are short?’ 

Catos looked abashed, but also disappointed. ‘Would you not be able to fight him at all?’ 

‘In earnest? If he was trying to kill me? Yes. But I can’t use those tactics in a friendly trial of skill.’ 

The tall man stepped forward and clapped Catos on the shoulder, making the boy stagger. ‘He has your measure,’ he said, laughing, and turned to Tom. ‘And tell me, little master, what would those tactics be?’ 

‘I’d run rings around you until I could get through your guard and hamstring you,’ said Tom in all seriousness. 

‘Ah, then the boy can learn from you, master. Fighting is not playing, and if outmatched, use any means to get the advantage - or be food for the crows.’ The men broke up and went about their business, the occasional burst of laughter drifting back across the square, and training resumed. Tom kept half an eye on Catos as the boy worked with the swordmaster, but for himself, he took over Faros’s training as a means to stop thinking about Barard. It didn’t work, but at least Faros stopped looking so worried about him, and by the end of the morning, Tom was pleased with the progress his pupil had made. They ate lunch in the soldiers’ mess, and then returned to the room they shared to leave their swords before heading to the baths. Catos was in a rush to get out of the room, but Faros called him back and handed him his collar without a word. The boy raced on ahead, and Faros and Tom followed more slowly. 

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice, Tolm,’ said Faros quietly. 

Tom jumped; he had been following his own thoughts to a small strip of sunlight in a gloomy cell. ‘Notice what?’ 

‘That you hardly ate.’

Tom shrugged. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’ 

Catos waited for them just inside the palace entrance, and they stepped out together into a wall of heat. The marketplace was empty at this time of day: too hot for traders and customers alike. Tom squinted against the glare; only the promise of a cool bath could have tempted him out. 

‘I don’t know how you can walk in bare feet,’ said Catos. 

‘I’m a _hobbit._ I’ve never known different.’

‘But it’s so _hot_ underfoot.’ 

‘The sole of my foot is as thick as the leather of your sandals.’ 

They argued half-heartedly about footwear, and had just arrrived at the baths when a man rushed towards them and threw himself at Tom’s feet. Tom jumped back, but the man followed on his knees, kissing Tom’s feet and stroking his foot fur, all the while gabbling unintelligibly. Tom reached out to try to persuade the man to rise, but his hand was seized and showered in kisses. 

‘For the Lady’s sake, stop it and do something,’ hissed Tom as Faros and Catos almost doubled over with laughter. Still laughing at Tom’s predicament, they prised the man into a more upright position. 

‘I think you saved his wife and child,’ said Faros, as the man engulfed Tom in a crushing embrace. 

‘Mmmpf,’ said Tom, his voice muffled. Who was going to save _him?_ The man was hurting his back. 

‘I am your servant, your servant,’ cried the man. ‘Anything I can do for you, just say the word. Do you want to make application to the courts to be a freeman? I can draw you up everything you need!’ 

‘Nothing,’ said Tom. ‘There is nothing.’ _Unless you can let Barard walk free._ ‘I am glad I was able to help.’ With difficulty he extricated himself from the man’s fawning. As they stripped in the baths, he grumbled at Faros and Catos, who were both still laughing. 

‘I’m sorry, Tolm, but you should have seen your face,’ said Faros, and Catos giggled. 

‘You looked as if he were offering to suck your cock in public.’

Faros stopped laughing. ‘Catos!’ 

‘Well, he did. It’s his foot thing you told me about. Do all _Harffings_ have furry feet? How do mothers stop them getting all tangled if they can’t touch them? Is it like beards, that only grow later?’ Catos touched the few hairs on his chin proudly. 

Tom glanced at Catos; there was no doubt the boy was growing into manhood. ‘ _Halflings_ are born with foot fur,’ he said. ‘Of course mothers can touch. It’s very soothing. It’s only as we get older that it changes. I bet your mother washed you _everywhere_ when you were little; you’d be horrified if someone tried to do that now, unless she was your lover.’ 

‘Or he,’ said Catos quietly, and slipped into the water avoiding their eyes. Tom and Faros exchanged glances. Was Catos really attracted to men, or was he simply following the example of the two he looked to as his elders? Whatever the answer, it was obvious to Tom that there was an immediate consequence. Faros, who was normally so comfortable in his contact with Catos, seemed suddenly shy of touching him, and fended the youngster off when Catos tried to leap on him in the water. 

Tom washed himself and lay back, thinking about how Barard loved the bath house in Minas Tirith, with its high vaulted ceiling and mosaics on the walls. It was one of the first places Pippin had taken them. 

_At first, he and Barard were overawed by everything they saw. Never had they imagined a city as vast and imposing as Minas Tirith. Riding across the wide farmland between the outer walls and the city gate, they became more and more subdued as the city towered over them. Pippin laughed. ‘I remember riding here with old Gandalf for the first time. I was overcome, quite overcome, by the wonder of it. I was lucky as well, arriving at dawn and seeing all the banners unfold, and the Tower of Ecthelion - that one high up there - caught in the morning light. It was as though it were made of silver and pearl.’_

_Greetings were called to them as they rode through the main gates and up through the city, and Pippin called back, sometimes raising a hand in salute. Tom and Barard rode close together, trying not to notice how much they were being stared at. They had met men at Bree and in Rohan, but it was still unnerving. ‘Relax,’ said Pippin. ‘You’re_ Ernil i Pheriannath.’ _He winked at them. ‘Make the most of it. They’ll soon find out what a couple of young scallywags you are.’_

_The ride through level after level of the city seemed interminable to Tom. He was wound as tight as a spring, anyway, since he and Barard had found scant opportunity for intimacy on the way, and he was hoping that would now change. They handed their ponies over to a groom, and Pippin led them to the outer wall. When Tom found that Pippin’s house was on two levels, and that the main rooms upstairs overlooked the sixth circle wall, with a vertigo inducing view over the plains far below, he wanted to curl into a ball and pretend it wasn’t happening. What had possessed them to come?_

_Pippin bustled about cheerfully, stretching up to open shutters, and chatting away as though this was the most natural place to find themselves. ‘Good. It’s all been kept well aired. We’ll find a servant tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest we visit the baths to freshen up, and then eat out somewhere. There are plenty of rooms to choose from; you can have one each, if you prefer, but I expect you’d like the company of being together.’ He led them down a corridor. ‘This bedroom has the best view, but it has a double bed. What do you think? If you find the idea of sharing a bed awkward, you can have the room at the back of the house, but this one is nicer.’ Tom and Barard looked at each other, speechless. The bed was enormous! ‘No need to decide now,’ said Pippin. ‘I’ll be down there.’ He waved back down the corridor, gave them a reassuring smile, and disappeared. His voice came faintly. ‘I’ll call you when I’m ready to go the baths.’_

_Barard let his own pack fall to the ground and pulled Tom close. He was trembling. ‘Why are we here, why did we come? What were we thinking!’_

_Tom leaned into the welcome embrace, one hand busy between them, flipping buttons undone, the other sliding up Barard’s back on its way to tangle into his hair. ‘I’ve no idea. I think we thought it would be an adventure. I don’t want adventures. I just want you.’ His hand closed around Barard’s cock._

_‘What if Father comes back?’_

_‘He said he’d call us. Oh, love, I’ve missed this.’ They tilted their heads, mouth seeking mouth, taking comfort in the familiar teasing and tasting, tongue meeting tongue in the promise of another penetration, another joining. But not yet -_

_Pippin’s voice called to them. ‘Lads! Are you ready?’_

_‘Bollocks,’ said Tom under his breath._

_‘A bath... would be good.’ Barard’s words came with a breathless catch as Tom’s hand kept up a sure stroke._

_‘A_ public _bath?’_

_‘We can... come... to bed... clean.’ ‘Mmmm. Might not stay that way.’ ‘Tom! I’m -’_

_‘Lads, are you coming?’_

_‘Yes, sir,’ Tom called back. ‘Won’t be a minute!’ He dropped to his knees and enveloped Barard’s cock in his mouth. There was a thrill beneath his tongue, and then Barard was coming in earnest, fingers wound tight in Tom’s hair. He was making small mewling cries that meant he was trying desperately to be quiet._

_Tom finished swallowing and pushed himself up to hold Barard in his arms again. Barard folded against him with a soft sigh. ‘I owe you one.’ He rubbed Tom’s cock through his breeches. ‘Shit. I wish there were time now.’_

_Tom grabbed his towel from his pack and held it strategically in front of him to hide the evidence of his excited state as they joined Pippin. This was going to be embarrassing if his hard-on didn’t subside by the time they got to the baths._

_In the event, it was not a problem. The baths were busy in the early evening, and being stared at by so many men was a daunting experience, made worse by being naked. Tom’s height made it hard to know where to look. Barard nudged him and leaned close. ‘I never knew cocks came in such a variety of shapes and sizes,’ he whispered. ‘It makes me feel very inadequate.’_

_Tom snorted with laughter. There was nothing inadequate about Barard’s cock. He glanced down to where it hung soft and full of promise over the flaccid sac. It was not a sight he was often treated to - naked and Barard being synonymous with fuck and now - but sometimes he would lie awake afterwards propped on one elbow to gaze down. The sight of Barard’s sleeping face, his hair clinging damply to sweated skin, his body lying relaxed and open, and his unaroused cock nestling amongst reddish-brown hair, always brought out strong feelings of love and protection in Tom, feelings of such intensity that they were like a pain in his chest. It was as though Barard were wound so tight about his heart that it hurt. He always had to resist the selfish urge to gather Barard in his arms and kiss him back to wakefulness._

_Now, under his gaze, Barard’s cock twitched. ‘Stop it!’ hissed Barard. ‘Stop looking at me like that!’ He gave Tom a little push to get him to follow his father._

_Tom wasn’t confident in water, and was happy to follow Pippin down the steps that made up one side of the large pool. The water was pleasantly warm, and after weeks on the road he sat with a sigh of pleasure. Barard jumped in, showering not only them, but several men who looked at him severely and grumbled amongst themselves. ‘Ah,’ said Pippin. ‘Hobbits are back.’_

Tom would have liked to have followed the memory further, back to the double bed, but he became aware of concerned voices. 

‘I think he’s gone to sleep.’

‘Well, he didn’t sleep much last night.’ 

‘He’s going to be all wrinkly if he stays in the water much longer, and I bet he’ll have a crick in his neck. Shall I wake him up?’ 

‘No, I will.’ 

The water sloshed around Tom, and he opened his eyes as Faros stroked his brow. ‘’S all right,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m ‘wake. Just thinking.’ He pushed himself up. Catos was right: his neck was feeling tight and uncomfortable. 

‘We’re going to an inn, to sit out the heat. Would you rather go back to the palace to take a nap?’ 

‘No. I’ll come with you. Cartwright Street?’ 

‘That’s as good as any, and it’s not far. Yes, that’s fine by me. Up you get.’ 

Faros dabbed Tom’s back dry for him and applied a salve, but mercifully left off the bandages. Tom dressed slowly, putting off stepping out into the heat. He twisted the cloth around his loins, his mind on Barard, and Catos laughed. ‘Do you remember, Faros? When we first came here? Tolm’s face when he had to get dressed?’ His voice leapt from boy’s to man’s and back again, and it was Tom’s turn to laugh at Catos’s expression. 

‘Well, I’ve got used to it now. And don’t worry, your voice will settle soon.’ He slipped his feather and bead necklace over his head and yawned. 

‘Are you sure you don’t want to take a nap?’ asked Faros. ‘We’ll come back with you, if you’d like our company.’ 

Tom shook his head. ‘No, really, I’m fine.’ Faros raised an eyebrow, and Tom shrugged. What did Faros expect him to say? He might understand bereavement, but could anyone really appreciate this daily torture who had not been through it? With a jolt, he suddenly realised there were many in the city who _had_ been through it - were still going through it. How many Disappeared were there? How many had wives, lovers? 

When they reached the inn, it had all the appearance of being closed. In Minas Tirith, Tom would have turned away from such a shuttered appearance, but here it meant nothing, not in the afternoon respite when the city ground to a halt in the heat. They pushed the door open and entered the gloom. Come the evening, the place would be buzzing with noise and activity, inside and out, but for now men would be lounging about, talking listlessly in the relative cool afforded by thick walls and shuttered windows. Coming in from the glare of the street was like walking into blindness, and they paused, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the low light. As they did so, the quiet hum of conversation faded into a disconcerting silence. 

_We’re well known here, what’s the problem?_ thought Tom. Catos grabbed hold of his upper arm, obviously scared by this unusual welcome. Tom had no knives, but even so he would have preferred to have both hands free if trouble were coming. _I’ll have to talk to him about that. Just let me see. A star glass would be good._ The thoughts raced one after another in the blink of an eye, and then sound rushed back in a wave of enthusiastic cheering. Tom let out the breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and on his other side he heard Faros do the same in part sigh of relief, part familiar huff of laughter. 

Gradually, Tom’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Artisans, slaves and guards were on their feet, clapping and whooping, and the innkeeper was bowing the three of them in. ‘Welcome, little bird, welcome,’ he said to Tom. ‘Drinks are on the house, for you and your friends.’ 

Catos tugged Tom’s arm. ‘What’s it about?’ he whispered, but the innkeeper heard him. 

‘About? About? Why, he rescued a woman and child from a rampaging horse, and with his hands all bound and his back all bloody. There’s been talk of almost nothing else.’ The man turned back to Tom. ‘Dalmos hasn’t been too popular, I can tell you, but he s 

‘Dalmos?’

‘Over there.’ 

Tom had forgotten the man’s name, but he recognised his guard sitting on his own. ‘Yes, I did. It’s the reason I came today. I hoped he would be here to thank.’ 

The innkeeper threw up his hands. ‘Well, you’re a strange one.’ 

‘He was only doing his job, and he was -’ Tom thought about the right word. ‘Considerate.’ He said it loud enough for those around to hear. 

‘Well, have it your own way. I know what he’ll have; what about you?’ 

They all ordered lemon, as being both refreshing and sharp enough to keep them awake, and Tom led the way to the table where Dalmos sat. The innkeeper brought pressed lemon juice with a bowl of sugar and a jug of water. He set a glass of fiery spirits in front of the guard, and Dalmos raised the drink in salute. ‘Your health and good fortune,’ he said to Tom. ‘Rumour has it that you’re in Lord Sûlos's household now. I hope he’s a better master to you.’ 

Tom was aware of heads turning to listen to his reply. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am, and he is. His physician said that my back would have been a lot worse if you had laid the stripes all in the same place - more painful, and slower to heal.’ 

Dalmos stood and lifted Tom’s tunic from his back. ‘Good. That’s been well cared for. You’ll have some scars. Sorry about that. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you walking up to that mad horse. No horse has got much between its ears, but that one is fair asking to be made into cats’ meat, if you ask me.’ He settled back into his seat. ‘Mind you, Lord Sûlos paid for all the damage. My captain has a lot of time for him, you know; he says Sûlos takes his role of Justice of the Peace seriously - finds out both sides of the story, and doesn’t just rule in favour of the biggest bribe. I’ll tell you this: I’ve seen him and his brother walk around the city on their own, and that’s just foolishness, though people like to see it. Next thing you know, he’ll be assassinated or Disappeared. Between you and me, I think Daros will have raised a hornet’s nest around his ears if that happens, but you should tell them to take more care.’ 

The innkeeper came back just then and seated himself at their table. ‘Have you told him?’ he asked, and Dalmos shook his head. 

‘I was just coming to that.’ He turned to Tom. ‘You should take some care, as well, my small friend. There were a couple of men in here yesterday - Daros’s spies, if I’m any judge - and they’ve been asking questions about you: who you are, where you’re from, how long you’ve been in Hafar, that sort of thing.’ 

Tom frowned, hiding his alarm. ‘Why? What have I done?’ 

‘No idea. Our host here told them you’d been in Hafar for years; said your mother dropped you on your head as a babe and you never grew right, said it good and loud so’s everyone knows what story to tell them nosy bastards, but watch out for yourself. I reckon someone’s noticed you on account of your little show in the marketplace. Your friend’s been Disappeared, hasn’t he? And maybe you know best as to why.’ He stood up and drained the last of his drink. ‘Take care, you hear. If you’re ever in trouble, and near enough to the prison, drop in to see us; it’s an ideal place for hiding up.’ He winked at Tom. ‘We’ll bang you in clink, and let you out when it’s safe.’ 

Tom watched him leave. ‘Erm, what was he offering to do?’ he asked. 

The innkeeper laughed. ‘Put you in a prison cell. There’s no love lost between the City Guards and the Citadel Guards, so if you’re ever in trouble with the latter, the prison would be a good place to be. If that prophecy everyone’s talking about these days were true, then I reckon the City Guards would rise up and throw in their lot with the House of the Sun.’ He sighed. ‘But it’s all so much mist over the river, if you ask me, although good to think on when the taxes are raised yet again. What’s Daros up to that needs so much money, eh?’ Tom, Faros and Catos shook their heads and shrugged, not knowing the answer. The innkeeper leaned in close. ‘There’s a rumour he’s preparing an army to cross the Harnen and march north to invade Gondor, and that’s not likely to come to anything but more Haradrim becoming vulture fodder. Didn’t his father lose us enough of our finest men? A whole generation almost wiped out. Look around and tell me, where are the old men? Dead at the hands of those northern bastards, that’s where, but it was a bigger bastard as sent them, and now Daros has lost us Umbar. Next thing you know, that Númenorean devil’ll be invading _us_ for a change.’ 

Tom kept quiet, but Faros said quietly. ‘I’ve heard that the northern king is a fair and just man.’ 

‘Is that so? Well, I find it hard to believe, but even a fair and just man will swat a fly that annoys him, and there’s no denying Daros is an annoying little prick. The law says he has to have counsellors to advise him, and what’s he done? Appointed his horse! Did you hear about that?’ The innkeeper threw up his hands. ‘His _horse!_ He mocks the law. He mocks us all!’ He sighed and lowered his arms. ‘I’m sorry. You were probably after a quiet sit down, but he makes my blood boil. It’s nice to see you three all together still, what with our little bird here being let to fly from the wrist of so grand a household now.’ 

Catos shifted in his seat and looked down at Tom. Normally he would have curled up against Faros on the padded settle, but Faros had chosen one of the straight-backed chairs today, and the boy had taken his place beside Tom instead. Tom could not see any reason for keeping quiet; after all, they’d given the name of Sûlos as their master at the baths. ‘We’re all in the same household,’ he said. ‘Lord Sûlos bought all three of us.’ 

‘Well, well. Then you’re the only Hafar slaves he _has_ bought.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’d like to hear what you have to tell, but I can see by my good lady’s face she thinks I’m shirking, so another time.’ He stood up and winked at them. ‘My advice to you is not to marry; you can’t even call your breath your own.’ 

They had another drink, and by the time they walked back to the market, it was once more thronged with people. They looked across the square from the vantage point of higher ground, and Faros pointed. ‘There’s Sûlos and Yanos,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should warn them of what the guard said. They’re heading into the old quarter.’ 

Tom scanned across the square, but as he saw the brothers he grabbed Faros’s arm. ‘Who is that? That man there! He’s following them.’ The man was moving to keep the brothers in view, craning his head and peering around those who got in his way. There was something familiar about him, but Tom couldn’t place him. He was well dressed, so maybe he had bought jewellery from Bayos in the past. 

‘I see. I don’t know who he is.’ 

‘Where, where?’ said Catos. 

‘There,’ said Tom, pointing. Sûlos and Yanos were entering a narrow alley, and at that moment the man following them slowed and turned. He passed four unsavoury looking men on the edge of the market, and hesitated, scratching at his head. Tom nearly choked; the action was unmistakable in its familiarity. He watched the man veer away in a direction at odds with the path he had been following. ‘It’s Mehos!’ 

‘What! The man who brought you here? You said he was -’ 

Catos grabbed Faros, interrupting him. ‘Those men! He _spoke_ to them, he’s sent them after Sûlos and Yanos!’

‘Don’t be silly.’ 

‘He _did._ Look!’ 

Tom looked back to where the group of men had been. He had been watching Mehos, but it seemed that Catos might be right: the four men were entering the alley. There was no time to lose, no time to debate the rights or wrongs of it. ‘Catos, run straight to the palace. Find Tarlos, find anyone. Bring some help. That’s a blind alley.’ 

‘But -’ 

‘Do it! We’re unarmed. We’re relying on you. Go!’ He gave Catos a push and the boy turned and ran. Tom didn’t wait to watch his progress, didn’t wait to see if Faros was coming with him, he ran to the alley, cursing inwardly at his lack of any weapon. He paused at the entrance, peering around the building on one side, but the narrow way was in deep shadow. He looked up; Faros was on the other side, mirroring his action. Without a word, they slipped into the alley together, and Tom hoped that Mehos hadn’t stopped to watch. His mind wanted to think about the treachery of the man, but he pushed the thoughts away. Later. Now was not the time. 

Once again sight was lost as bright sunlight turned to deep shadow. Tom heard Faros mutter an imprecation as he tripped on an uneven flagstone. The alley backed onto one of the laundries, and the acrid smell of stale urine hung on the air; this was the way the contents of the city’s piss pots were brought in, destined to be used for cleaning. 

Tom’s eyes adjusted to the light, and there were the four men, closing stealthily on Yanos and Sûlos. There was no doubting their intentions. Two had knives raised in readiness to strike. 

‘Look out, my lords!’ shouted Faros in warning, his voice echoing off the high walls, and Sûlos and Yanos spun round, unsheathing their swords. The movement took Sûlos out of the range of the falling knife, and the assassin - caught off balance by his blow going astray - was felled instantly by his would-be victim. Yanos was not so lucky: the knife drove home into his left shoulder, but he still wielded his sword to deadly effect. There was a horrid gurgling sound as the second assassin fell. 

It happened almost faster than Tom could follow. Before he and Faros had even reached them, Sûlos had engaged the third of the assailants, but Yanos was down on one knee, bleeding freely, his left arm held awkwardly. He was an easy target. The fourth assassin drew a curved sword, and Sûlos shouted, _‘Yanos!’_ Faros threw himself at Yanos’s attacker with a yell of fury, barrelling into him and throwing him off balance before his blow could fall. The sword flew free as they crashed over and rolled across the alley, locked together, to hit the wall behind Sûlos. Sûlos could not spare a glance to see the outcome; he was fighting for his life. Tom looked for an opening to join the fray. He could reach neither of the dead to take their weapons, but he could possibly trip Sûlos's opponent or distract him. 

Faros was at least on his feet again, back to the wall, but his opponent had drawn a knife. Faros’s fingers locked around the man’s right wrist, keeping the blade at arm’s length. Tom heard the thud as the assassin head-butted Faros, and almost like an echo, the sound of Faros’s head hitting the wall behind. Faros crumpled into a heap, and his attacker twisted up behind Sûlos, knife at the ready. 

Yanos forced himself to his feet, staggering slightly. He was unable to protect his brother’s back, but he was enough of a threat to distract the man he fought with. Sûlos lunged under the man’s guard, and that fight was at an end. 

The next moment, the scene that had been so full of frenzied action froze into immobility, as the remaining assassin grabbed Sûlos from behind and held a knife at his throat. Tom had seen enough animals slaughtered to know what that blade could do. 

Faros lay slumped on the ground, and Tom forced his gaze away from his friend, hoping desperately he was just unconscious. Yanos was still on his feet, but not in a state to give any help; he swayed, his breathing shallow and rapid, as blood spread out in a darkening stain across his tunic. Tom’s mind raced; if Yanos collapsed - as he might, at any moment - the assassin was unlikely to think twice about killing Sûlos, but for now he protected himself with the threat. If the man saw Tom take a blade from one of the fallen, he would probably kill Sûlos anyway. Tom hesitated for only a moment. He threw himself on Sûlos, clutching the lord’s right leg and sobbing. He pitched his voice as high as he could and kept his head down. _Please, let him think I’m a child._ ‘Master, master,’ he cried shrilly, his hand reaching into the top of Sûlos's boot. _Yes! A knife!_ He felt Sûlos tense, ready. 

The assassin swore and kicked at Tom, then screamed as Tom plunged the knife deep into his groin and twisted the blade. Blood spurted in a warm flood over Tom’s arm, and Sûlos drove his elbow back hard. The man folded and crashed to the ground, dropping his knife as he fell. Still screaming, he clutched at the wound in a futile effort to stem the flow of blood. 

To Tom’s great relief, Faros staggered to his feet, one hand against the wall to support himself. He shook his head, looking dazed, and stared at the corpses strewn around. For a moment, the four of them stood panting in the alley. The smell of blood hung heavily on the air. 

‘Good hunting, brothers,’ mumbled Yanos. His sword dropped from his hand, and his knees buckled. 

‘Yanos!’ cried Sûlos, casting his own sword aside. He caught his brother in his arms as Yanos collapsed completely, and cradled him close. Faros gave a last shake of his head, and stripped off his tunic. He ripped up the side seam, making a pad to press against the wound on Yanos’s shoulder. Sûlos snatched it from him to staunch the flow of blood. ‘Yanos,’ he whispered. 'Yanos.’ 

Tom stood trembling, feeling sick and shaky now the danger was past. His back was hurting, and he hated the necessity of his actions. He knew he should try to help the man who was bleeding to death at his feet, but he couldn’t get his legs to obey him. The sound of a shout and running feet brought his head up: Tarlos running like the hound of Morgoth, leading half a dozen men, with Catos close behind them. They skidded to a halt, two of the men slipping on the bloody flagstones. 

‘Yanos,’ whispered Tarlos. ‘Oh, dear lady, no!’ He turned to his men. ‘You, check those three are dead. You, do something about the one that’s not - try to stop the bleeding; I want to question him if he lives! You two, go and fetch a litter, _now!’_

Catos rushed past him and threw himself on Faros. ‘You’re hurt, you’re hurt!’ he cried. Faros extricated himself and held Catos away from him, his hand leaving a red smear on the boy’s tunic. 

‘No. I’m not. It’s not my blood. Look to Tolm.’ 

Tom waved a hand in negation. ‘Not my blood either,’ he said weakly. He sat suddenly, sickened by the carnage, and put his head in his hands. 

‘Lord Tarlos, this man is near dead.’ 

‘Morgoth’s spawn! I want him alive!’ 

‘I’m sorry, my lord, the artery is severed deep in the groin. An expert stroke. His pulse is barely perceptible, a weak thread. How is it with Lord Yanos? Will he live?’ 

All heads turned to Sûlos. ‘He is strong, my brother,’ said Sûlos defiantly, and then angrily, ‘Where’s that litter!’ 

Faros knelt beside them. ‘The bleeding has stopped.’ He stayed Sûlos's hand. ‘No, don’t move the pad; keep it pressed tight, or it may start again.’ He held Yanos’s wrist lightly, feeling for his pulse, and Yanos stirred. 

‘I’m all right.’ His voice was weak. ‘Just a little light-headed. Give me a moment, and I’ll be able to stand.’ 

‘You will not!’ said Sûlos. ‘We will carry you home.’ 

Yanos closed his eyes again, and laid his head against his brother’s chest. ‘Home is a long way away,’ he mumbled. ‘I miss the mountains and the high plains.’ 

‘We’ll go back there soon.’ 

‘Are Faros or Tolman hurt?’ 

‘No, although I think Tolman is going to be sick.’ Sûlos looked up in relief as Balios came running up, followed by the physician and litter bearers. The men who had fetched them were keeping back a throng of people at the alley entrance. 

The physician examined Yanos, and gave a single nod to Sûlos, who visibly relaxed. ‘To the palace with him. The cleaning can wait until then. Keep the pad there.’ 

Sûlos hovered around as Yanos was lifted onto the litter, then turned to Tom. ‘Come, master _Halfling,_ I owe you a great debt. Is that the first man you’ve killed?’ 

Tom let himself be pulled to his feet, and shook his head. He looked to where the man lay in a pool of blood. ‘No, I have killed one other, but I do not take pleasure from it, and to be truthful, it sickens me. I can’t help wondering whether there are those who will mourn for him. I’m sorry. I know he tried to kill you both.’ 

Sûlos looked gravely down at him. ‘No need to apologise. You are right to feel compassion, and - feeling as you do - I thank you for acting so decisively. For a moment I thought you were truly distraught, until I felt you take my knife. It was cleverly done.’ 

They emerged into the marketplace, where normal business seemed to have come to a halt. A crowd had formed, and people were pushing and shoving, trying to get a look at what was happening. A low angry murmur of sound spread across the square. Faros was carrying Yanos’s sword, and he joined Tarlos at the head of the procession to clear a way through the press of people. 

Tom himself was covered in blood, and the smell filled his nostrils. He heard a new murmur start. ‘Our little bird is hurt! The soldiers say he saved Lord Sûlos.’ Tom was glad to leave it all behind as they entered the palace, and even gladder to clean the blood that had caked on his right hand and forearm, and to strip off his blood-splattered clothes. He and Faros made do with cold water to sponge themselves down, and they shivered and gasped at the contrast to their hot, sweated bodies. Catos fetched clean water and handed them towels, washed the last of the blood from Tom’s face, and admired Faros’s bruises. There were fresh clothes laid out on their beds, clothes fit for lords, and Faros looked rather dazed as he pulled on a dark green robe that had a gold thread running through it with the warp of the cloth. Tom suddenly realised this was probably the first time in Faros’s life that he had not worn the traditional garb of a slave. 

Catos, as usual, was taking it all in his stride, but he kept stealing glances at Faros until he realised Tom was watching him. He pulled on a dark yellow robe over his plain white dress, and grinned at Tom. ‘They’ve given you southern clothes,’ he said. 

‘It’s closer to what I would wear in Minas Tirith,’ admitted Tom, straightening the dark tunic over trousers that were a little more close fitting than he was used to, especially around the lower leg. ‘As long as they don’t expect me to wear boots.’ 

Balios came to invite them to Sûlos's rooms, and gathered up their soiled clothes. 

‘They’ll need soaking in cold water,’ said Faros. 

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Balios, and Faros looked down, chewing on his lip. After Balios had gone, he sighed. 

‘It’s not so bad,’ said Tom. ‘Being called “my lord.”’

‘It’s not that, or only partly. I was acting like the house slave, telling Balios what to do.’ 

Tom laughed. ‘You’ve been a slave nearly thirty years, yes? And you expect to change overnight? How long did it take me to learn to act like a slave?’ 

‘But I don’t think you ever _thought_ like a slave,’ said Faros, looking thoroughly dejected. 

‘I don’t see the problem,’ said Tom. ‘I mean, in the Shire even Barard had to do the most menial of tasks, despite being the _Thain’s_ son, because the _Thain_ insisted that his children should know how to do everything that servants were expected to do. Granted, some things like cleaning out the cesspit were a punishment, and I had to help him with that a time or two, never mind I was a guest and the _Mayor’s_ son.’ 

‘You were a guest and had to help with _that?’_

Tom smiled at the memory, although he had called Pippin every name he knew at the time - once he was out of his hearing. ‘Very even handed with his punishments, was the _Thain._ I was to blame as much as Barard, so it was only fair.’ 

‘And what had you done?’ 

‘I can’t remember. It might have been after we waxed the long passageway down to the library and used it to slide along. Barard’s Uncle Everard came along carrying a pile of books and went arse up.’ Tom thought about it a moment. ‘But maybe that was the time we were made to polish all the public rooms in Great Smials, and believe me, that’s not funny; it’s a big place.’ He looked at Catos, who was contemplating the corridor they were walking along with a thoughtful eye. ‘Don’t even _think_ about it,’ Tom said. ‘Anyway, you need a wooden floor.’ 

Catos didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Tolm, how old were you when you first... you know... with Barard?’ The boy wasn’t looking at either of them, and Tom was very aware that Faros had tensed beside him. 

‘I was twenty-five, Barard was twenty-two, but you have to remember that _hobbits_ don’t come of age until thirty-three, so I suppose that we were about seventeen and fifteen in your years.’ 

Catos didn’t comment, just ran on ahead to the wing housing Sûlos's rooms. Faros scowled after him, and Tom touched his arm. ‘Numbers might not dance for me as they do for Barard, but I can work out that you were fifteen when you and Patros - ’ 

‘That’s not the point,’ said Faros sourly.

‘So what is the point?’

‘I think you know!’ 

‘That you are near twice his age, and his guardian?’

‘That he has a childish infatuation, and you encourage him.’ Faros stalked after Catos, and Tom had to almost run to keep up. _Damn!_

In Sûlos's room, they found Yanos lying propped up by pillows on a couch, looking a little sallow, but alert. He was dressed Hafar style, and his left arm had been immobilised against his body in a sling. As they entered, he held out his right hand to them. ‘Thank you, my friends. You, too, Catos. It is not always easy to obey orders and leave the fight to others, but sometimes it is the right thing to do.’ 

Faros took his hand, palm to palm, and knelt by his side. ‘Your enemies are my enemies,’ he said. 

Sûlos laid a hand on Faros’s shoulder. ‘Of those we’ll speak later,’ he said. ‘For now, take your ease and eat. My captains are coming here after they have supped in the main hall, to save having to move Yanos. Tarlos has gone to the Citadel, to see what he can learn of the king’s mood.’ 

‘Is that wise?’ asked Faros. ‘I mean, there’s just been an attempt to kill both of you.’ 

‘Which shows Daros does not wish to move against us openly, although I fear something has caused him to strike at us now.’ 

Tom shifted uncomfortably on his feet. ‘My lord, I think -’ 

‘As I said, Tolman, we’ll talk of this later. Please, be seated. Balios, bring our guests wine. Faros, how did you fare with the swordmaster this morning?’ 

‘I don’t feel I have an aptitude for the sword,’ said Faros. ‘Although, to be truthful, I learnt more from Tolm. He’s a patient teacher.’ 

Yanos looked at Tom in surprise. ‘You fight with the sword?’ 

‘I prefer knives, my lord.’ 

‘And he knows where to strike, given his lack of height,’ said Sûlos. He turned to Tom. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded rude. I don’t mean to, er, belittle you. I mean, you -’ 

Yanos laughed. ‘I think you should stop digging holes for yourself, brother, and thank Tolm again for saving your life.’ 

Tom waved a hand. ‘I _am_ small. There is no harm in saying so, but I would rather talk about something else. Tell me of your home that is so far away; the mountains and high plains that Yanos spoke of.’ 

Sûlos smiled at him. ‘I will add tact to your skills, Tolman. Thank you. We hillmen are always happy to speak of our hills.’ 

The talk turned to their homes and families in the south, and the brothers’ eyes took on a faraway expression as they spoke of high grasslands where the wild horses roamed, and the fertile lower-lying lands beyond. Yanos sighed. ‘The very air seems oppressive here,’ he said. ‘We do not get this heat at home.’ 

‘So, why did you come to Hafar?’ asked Tom. ‘Tarlos said your mountain fortresses were unassailable. Why not just stay put?’ 

‘For many reasons,’ answered Sûlos. ‘Not least that Daros does not govern. He uses - abuses - his kingship. Those in authority under him follow his lead. Corruption taints every public office. There is drought in the central kingdoms, and he does nothing to distribute food, or ease their taxes. These are _my_ people, and he treats them like cattle, thinking only what he can take from them for his own ease.’ 

‘Your people? But you said your home was far in the south.’ 

‘All the peoples of Harad are my people, Tolm. My father could not move against Cyros - his hold was too strong - but Daros is too busy with his pleasures and petty intrigues, and has abandoned all rural areas to their fate. Bandits roam freely, although my men do what they can to halt the scourge and keep my supply lines open.’ 

Tom wished again that he could see the longfather trees of those before him. ‘I’m ignorant of your history, but I understood that the House of the Sun always supplied the high king,’ he said. Faros choked on his wine. 

‘Say rather that the line of descent long stayed in that House by chance rather than law,’ said Sûlos. He handed Faros a napkin and laughed. ‘I don’t think my captains would have accepted Faros’s lineage so easily had they been asked to accept him as their king.’ 

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Tom. ‘I mean, if you are more directly descended from the last king, then surely you must be head of the House of the Sun.’ 

‘I am descended from Sûlia, the eldest daughter of Julos; she married into the House of the Morning Star. At the time of her father’s death at the hands of the agents of Sauron, four of her five brothers were already dead, and all of their children. Her father’s only brother had already been murdered, and left no issue. Her youngest brother, Julios, was therefore head of the House of the Sun, and high king, but he was never crowned, and died soon afterwards. The Usurper did not know that both Sûlia and the wife of Julios had been sent to the far south for safety, nor that Sûlia had already given birth to a son. The wife of Julios was with child, and a son was born several months after his father’s death. However, high kingship does not pass to a posthumous son, although a House does.’ 

‘I’m sorry. I do not understand the words.’

‘A son born after the death of his father cannot become high king.’ 

‘Oh. I see. Thank you.’ 

He didn’t really, and his puzzlement must have shown, because Sûlos topped up his wine for him, and said, ‘An unborn child cannot hold the kingdoms of Harad together. There must be no break in the succession. That is not true for a House, because the high king holds the title in trust.’ 

Tom sipped his wine and nodded. He could see the sense of that in a country which in the past had needed a strong rule to hold all the lesser kingdoms together. He glanced at Faros, then across the room to Catos, suddenly aware that the Houses were in fact the old kingdoms, that there was a time when their ancestors had been styled king. He looked back to Sûlos. ‘How did Faros come to be a slave?’ 

‘Our ancestors resisted the overlordship of Sauron, and were hard pressed in the far south. Unassailable, you said, but in truth there was real risk of being overrun with the help of some devilment of the Eye. The alliance against the Eye decided to spread the cost of defeat, by holding the two lines apart. The royal line, my line, remained safe, but Julios’s infant son was not so lucky. He and his mother were captured, but not recognised for what they were: last remnant of a great House. They were enslaved rather than executed, but I did not know that until yesterday. I would have paid a thousand times the amount I did to free you, Faros, and it would have been nothing to the debt I now owe you for saving Yanos.’ He stood and hugged Faros to him. ‘I promise you, if we’re successful, you will have all that is rightfully yours restored to you.’ 

‘And if we aren’t,’ said Yanos drily, ‘you might wish that you had remained a slave in the jeweller’s household.’ 

‘No,’ said Faros. ‘Never!’ He knelt at Sûlos's feet to make obeisance. ‘You might not ask for my allegiance, but it is yours. You are my king.’ 

‘Faros, _if_ I am ever crowned, I will ask for your allegiance. Until then, be my ally and good friend. Get up, man, get up.’ 

Faros had barely done so, when a man dressed as a slave entered with not even a warning knock. Tom could not place where he had seen him before. The strangest thing was that Sûlos and Yanos made no comment as the man picked over the remains of their supper. He was very dark-skinned, with shoulder-length hair, and a manner that could best be described as self- effacing. Had Tom met him in a crowd, he doubted he would even have noticed him. Faros and Catos looked as taken aback as Tom felt. The man settled down on the couch beside Yanos, and Yanos obligingly shifted his feet to make room for him. For the first time Tom got a good look at his face. His brows almost met, and he had a slight downward curve to his nose. 

‘Tarlos?’ 

Sûlos laughed. ‘Very good, Tolman. There’s not many that recognise him when he puts his mind to it.’ 

‘But I wasn’t putting my mind to it,’ said Tarlos, with his mouth full. ‘I’m hungry, and I want to talk to you - all of you - before your other captains join us.’ 

‘What did you find out at the Citadel? I take it you have been there? Before you took to using walnut juice and playing slave?’ 

Tarlos reached up and dragged off the wig he was wearing. His long hair was tightly tied back, and he shook it out. He nodded. ‘First, did you know Tolman is a personal friend of the northern king? I found that out this morning, which seems a long time ago now. He also trained with the Tower Guard.’ He accepted a glass of wine from Sûlos, and raised it to Tom. ‘The rest is not so good. I’ll save most of the news to present to the whole meeting. For now, let me say that there is some sort of delegation expected from Umbar in seven days. No names, but I gather it includes someone of importance.’ 

They all looked at Tom. ‘Why is that not good?’ he asked. The possibility that he might see someone he knew - or, if not, someone with whom he could send a message back to Minas Tirith - made him feel light-headed. 

‘Because Daros has decided to treat them to a public spectacle, and at the same time, I presume, remove any possibility of clemency for Barard from negotiations.’ 

_‘No!’_ Tom, leapt to his feet in horror, unable to believe that he was hearing right.

‘Listen, Tolman, I have a plan that I hope will serve all our needs, but the truth is that Barard’s execution is set for the day after the Gondorians arrive. I am sorry.’

Tom’s legs buckled, and he sat, staring at Tarlos in shock. ‘No!’ he whispered. ‘Please, no.’ 


	10. Chapter 10

Tarlos’s rather hawk-like features softened into pity and concern. He set his food aside and sat beside Tom. Still in a state of shock, Tom just stared up at him. _Executed!_ Barard was to be executed! He felt the couch dip on his other side and felt his hand taken, but his eyes were on Tarlos. 

‘Listen, Tolman,’ said Tarlos gently. ‘I told you that I have a plan that will serve all our needs. We will be discussing this and other things at the council meeting tonight. You must choose whether to stay and hear what is said, and join us in discussion, or whether to retire to your room. If you wish to stay, you must restrain your feelings, do you understand? And if you go, one of us will come to tell you what has passed as soon as possible.’ 

Tom stared at him. He understood, he really did, but he was finding it hard to respond. His mind seemed full of fog, and his chest was bound tight with a crushing band of pain, making it impossible to draw breath or speak. 

‘Tolman? Do you hear me?’ 

‘I think he should go.’ It was Faros on his other side. ‘I will go with him. Tolm?’ 

Tom fought against the roaring in his ears and the darkness that threatened to engulf him. A breath, he must take a breath, or he would fall and be carried to his room in a swoon. He dug his fingernails into his palm, hoping that the sharpness of the pain might clear his mind. ‘I will - stay,’ he said with a huge effort. ‘I will stay, and hear what is said.’ 

‘Good,’ said Tarlos. He relinquished his seat to Catos, and Tom sat rigidly between his friends. Catos stroked his arm and linked fingers with him in distress as the members of the council were shown in by Balios. A scribe took his place at a small table, and the rest had to sit where they could, on couches and footstools. 

‘Thank you, my lords, for joining me here,’ said Sûlos. ‘We will speak of the attempt on our lives shortly, but as you see, Yanos is injured, but not dangerously so. First, may we have the day’s reports.’ 

The pattern followed that of the previous day, as news was given of troops and provisions. One of the missing scouts had returned, but he had no news of either Daros’s third army or of the other two scouts. Bandits had been routed from a hilltop position in the south, where they had been harassing movements of supplies. News had come of the successful distribution of food in the worst of the drought-affected areas. 

When the last report had been given, Sûlos leaned forward and gave an account of the attack. Faces turned to Tom and Faros as Sûlos spoke of their role. ‘Unarmed as he was, Lord Faros took on the man who would have struck a fatal blow to Yanos. Do not believe, any of you, that his reluctance to learn the sword means that he lacks in bravery. As for Tolman, do not judge him by his size; I owe him my life. Let none forget it. He is also a friend of King Elessar, and should we be successful, I hope he will speak well of us in the north.’ 

Tom was beginning to relax, as a calmness spread through his mind. There were different ways to view the news that Tarlos brought. If Barard could not be rescued, he was better off dead than caged in darkness - of that Tom had no doubt - and he knew he would not live out the night that followed. If Sûlos was not successful in the next week, then Tom would never speak of him to Elessar; it was suddenly all very simple. His one wish was that, if the worst happened, he could somehow be seen by Barard. He blinked tears back at the thought of actually seeing Barard - if only for a moment, if only across a crowded square - and became aware that the motive for the attack on Sûlos and Yanos was under discussion. 

‘I do not know what has prompted this now,’ said Tarlos, once more seated by Yanos’s feet. ‘Maybe we should just accept that the attempt is long overdue. I have spoken to you about this in the past, Sûlos, and I will ask you again not to leave the palace without a guard. I know the men love you for it, but it is not acceptable. You are a great leader, but you must be guided by me in this.’ Sûlos bowed his head, a small movement of acquiescence, and Tarlos smiled. ‘Thank you, cousin. What were you doing there, in the first place?’ 

It was Yanos who answered, his voice sounding weary. ‘A matter of justice.’ 

Tarlos nodded. ‘And is it not strange that this matter of justice should arise on the one day I did not accompany you to the courts?’ 

‘Yes, you are right,’ replied Sûlos. ‘In hindsight it was a lack of judgement on my part. I think now that our going there was engineered for the sole purpose of assassination.’ 

Tom opened his mouth to speak of Mehos, but Tarlos had more to say. ‘Yes, I believe you are right. My information suggests you will be summoned before Daros, so that he can wring his hands over this unfortunate event and pledge more guards on the streets to prevent such footpads. I do not think he will try to make any open move against us until after the embassy from Gondor has gone, but lacking the knowledge of why he should decide to have you assassinated now, it is hard to judge his future actions. Yes, Tolman? You wish to speak?’ 

Tom cleared his throat. ‘I fear I may be in some way the cause of the attack.’ 

There was a murmur of laughter around the room, quickly stifled. 

‘Explain,’ said Sûlos. 

‘I saw the man who sent your attackers after you. It was Mehos. He was introduced to me in Minas Tirith as a spy, and I travelled to Harad with him. I believed him dead at first, but something Catos said made me wonder. It seems the bandits were angry because they hadn’t been warned I was a trained fighter.’ Tom glanced up at Catos, who nodded. 

‘Yes, that’s what the wolves of the desert told the slave traders.’ 

‘Who was there to warn them? Only Mehos. I believe now that he intended my slavery from the beginning. I’m sure Tarlos can tell you it’s widely known that I quietened your mare, and widely known that I’m now a slave in your household. Men have been asking questions about me. The innkeeper on Cartwright Street gave them some cock and bull story, but I doubt any have made a secret of the name Tolmos, a name given to me by Mehos.’ 

‘I could understand the connection if the attack had been on you, Tolman,’ said Yanos. 

‘Who is this Mehos?’ asked Sûlos, looking at his cousin. 

‘I don’t know the name. Can you describe him, Tolman?’ 

Tom shrugged. All men in Harad had black hair and dark skin, it was hardly helpful. ‘He is well born, I think. He told me his father and brothers were all dead, but that may not be true. He is of medium build, certainly not as tall as you, my lords, and he has a scurviness of his scalp that he scratches at, so.’ 

Tarlos struck the fist of his right hand against his left palm. ‘The Jackal!’ he exclaimed. 'The king’s cousin! He is a master of disguise, but watch closely and he cannot resist the urge to worry at his scalp. If he has given King Elessar information, it is false. He hates Gondor. It is true his father and brothers are dead: they were killed by Prince Boromir’s men in an ill-fated attack across the Poros twenty years ago.’ 

‘But I still don’t see why that would set the Jackal on us,’ said Yanos. 

‘Tolman is in our household, an embassy is announced from Gondor, the prophecy of bar-Ard is suddenly on everyone’s lips, there are rumours that we are actually the House of the Sun - I think it is likely to be a combination of all those factors. They will not wish us to meet with Gondor, knowing that we have Tolman. My earlier assessment may be wrong. There may be a more open move against us before the week is out.’ 

‘You think that we should strike now?’ 

‘I think we will reduce our chance of success if we do. The original plan was to bring men into the city in large numbers during the Feast of Floods, but that is still seven weeks away. That is too long.’ Tarlos looked at Tom. ‘But we can use another public event. In one week, the city will be seething with people come to see a spy being executed.’ 

Tom started to protest, but Sûlos held his hand up. ‘Peace, Tolman. Let us hear Tarlos out. He said his plan would serve _all_ our needs.’ 

‘I think we should let it be known that the one to be executed is named the son of justice, and that he is the one sought by Tolmos, the slave. The city seems to have taken Tolman to its heart. Did you hear the outrage when he appeared covered in blood in the square? I think he should remain within the palace for his own safety, with the Jackal about. Yanos, you will be more badly injured than first thought, and so should also stay hidden. Sûlos, you can excuse yourself from any summons to the Citadel on the grounds that you fear for your brother’s life and watch by his bedside. A week will give us time to move troops where we planned, and to bring men into the city in disguise. Does anyone have anything to say?’ Tarlos looked around the seated men. ‘Can you have all in readiness in seven days?’ 

There were murmurs of agreement, but one man stood and looked at Sûlos for permission to speak. Sûlos nodded to him. 

‘There will be a greater guard presence in the city if there is to be an execution,’ the man said. ‘That would not have been the case in our original plan.’

‘We need to create confusion and division,’ said Tarlos. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped together. ‘Already there is word of a minor riot because of the attack on us. We need to foster that unrest and focus it around the execution, but there is another opportunity here. Let me tell you what will happen on that day. Citadel Guards will go to the dungeon and present a signed order from Daros for the release of the prisoner. They will escort him in chains to the place of public execution outside the Citadel, where he will be held in a well-defended guard house. If we try to effect his escape, I think the guards will simply kill him.’

Tom bowed his head. There seemed such an inevitability about the execution that he wished he hadn’t stayed. He wanted to scream, to smash something, to curl into a ball and weep. Faros touched his arm: Tarlos was still speaking.

‘But what if we are the ones who present the signed order in the dungeon? If we go dressed as Citadel Guards in the small hours of the morning, on the pretext that riots are feared and Daros wishes to move the prisoner early? We will not only have rescued Barard, but created more confusion as guards hunt for him.’

‘They will seek him here.’

‘Then we will be ready for them,’ said Sûlos. ‘We will wait until the Citadel Guards have been sent out, and then ambush them on the streets. That will create even more confusion. By the time it is fully light, we must hold the lower city. Our foot soldiers beyond the Tombs of the Kings must hold back Daros’s first army, as we planned, and stop them from crossing the river to the city’s defence; our cavalry will lead an attack on the second army. Yanos?’

‘I will be there to command it, brother, never fear.’

‘You’ll also have the mûmakil to command, but you must be ready to respond if the third army appears. Tarlos, how do you propose getting the signed order from the king, stamped with the Royal Seal?’

‘Forging it, cousin.’

‘You have someone who can do this?’

‘I have a week to find someone.’

‘Faros?’

‘Tolm has been offered the services of a man who might be able to do this. He offered to forge documents to prove Tolm was a freeman. I think his words were _anything you need.’_

‘Do you know where to find this man?’

‘His wife and child were trapped by your horse.’

‘Then I know where he lives. It is a rough area. We will summon him here, but I don’t know if we can trust him.’

‘I‘ll have him watched,’ said Tarlos.

Sûlos nodded his approval. ‘If you’re successful, how will you bring Barard through the city?’

‘I think we should be ready to change conveyances two or three times. Certainly we should be prepared for his being unable to walk. Possibly he should be drugged. He has a reputation for violence, and he doesn’t understand much of our language. It‘ll be hard to reassure him.’ Tarlos looked at the physician, who shook his head.

‘The _Halfling_ here was more affected by the drugs I gave him than I expected, although I tried to take account of his smaller size. If bar-Ard is weakened already, I cannot answer for his safety.’

‘Can I not come with you?’ whispered Tom, although he knew the answer.

‘I am sorry, no. We cannot disguise you as a guard.’

‘But he could be hidden in a carriage,’ said Faros, ‘or whatever you’re thinking of using. It might be safer so. If Barard is agitated, Tolm will calm him, yes? May I be one of the guards?’

‘If you can handle a sword with reasonable competence by the end of the week, and follow commands in a soldierly manner, then yes. But we must convince the dungeon guards, and it will take more than a piece of paper to do that.’

Faros nodded. ‘Tolm shall teach me a little Westron, as well. If he is not allowed out, it will pass the time, and maybe I can learn enough to explain to Barard.’

Another man stood and was given permission to speak. ‘I find it hard to understand why Daros is executing the _Halfling,_ especially in such a manner, designed to provoke the Gondorian ambassador. He risks both causing riots here and antagonising the northern king, Elessar. Umbar will be closed to us. Is the man mad?’

‘As to that,’ said Sûlos, ‘yes, the man is mad. Those around him are finding it harder to constrain his wilder schemes, but I believe that there are also those near to him who wish to provoke Gondor, and encourage his madness to that end. Yes, Tolm? What would you say?’

‘If you rescue Barard, then I am in your debt forever, but what of the Gondorians? They will be trapped in the Citadel. It seems doubtful that Daros will treat them with honour.’ 

‘That is well thought of. Tarlos?’

‘We must be inside the Citadel the night before Barard’s execution, but that will not tax us: there will be a large dinner that evening in honour of the Gondorian ambassador. In view of today’s deeds, our arriving with a guard will cause no surprise, and I know where I can hide with a small group of soldiers when you leave, Sûlos.’ Tarlos stood and paced the room. Everyone watched him, but no one spoke. He was so obviously thinking. ‘It will be difficult to speak openly with the ambassador; we will be watched closely while in his presence, and there is the language problem.’ 

‘What if Tolman writes a warning?’

‘Too risky if found.’

Yanos stirred on his couch, easing his shoulder. He looked tired. ‘What would be the consequence of Tolman’s attending us as a slave? A slave in attendance would not be unusual; it is just a question of how Daros might react.’

Tarlos rubbed his chin. ‘It would be useful to have someone who understands exactly what is said. It would anger the Jackal, that is certain, and he risks exposure in his duplicity should Tolman speak to the Gondorians. If Daros follows his usual pattern, he will smile on us at the time, and wait for the morning to make his move against our House. A slave, though - that is a different matter. The Jackal would have no compunction in having Tolman murdered during the feast if he saw the need and the opportunity arose.’

The physician levered himself up and crossed the room to Yanos. ‘I’m sorry, my lords. My patient must get some rest. He has lost a lot of blood.’ Yanos started to protest, but the physician held up his hand. ‘If you want to make good your boast, young man, that you will lead the cavalry in one week’s time, then you must listen to me now.’

Sûlos stood. ‘This council is at an end. We will meet again tomorrow evening. Remember, we fear for Yanos’s life. In two days he will take a fever, and I will barely leave his side. Yanos, I’m afraid that you will not be recovered enough to attend the feast. We must not both walk into the Jackal’s lair. The soldiers in this palace will be split into three watches. Thank you, my lords.’

Tom walked back to his room in such a daze that he would have passed by the door if Faros and Catos had not steered him in the right direction. He stood staring out of the window, soft night scents from an enclosed garden drifting in on the night air. ‘Will it work?’ he asked. The soft rustle of cloth made him turn; Faros was standing naked as he pulled a night shift over his head. Despite his preoccupation, Tom’s mouth twitched as he realised Catos was watching Faros intently, but by the time Faros’s head emerged, the shift falling down to clothe his body, Catos was busy over his own undressing. 

‘Well, will it?’ asked Tom.

‘I suppose we’ll know that better when we know if the papers can really be forged,’ answered Faros. ‘There are many things that could go wrong. Barard may be moved earlier than we expect, the guards may not release him to us, we may be challenged leaving the Citadel, Sûlos may be defeated.’

‘Of course it will work!’ cried Catos, bouncing around them waving his night-shirt like a banner. He sobered and stopped in front of Tom. ‘But what I want to know is why someone can’t go out to meet the Gondorians as they travel from Umbar. Why do you have to think up difficult plans to meet them in the Citadel when that may get you killed? It would be very sad to rescue Barard in order to tell him you’re dead.’

Tom and Faros looked at each other, and Faros laughed. ‘Why indeed. I think I may be about to lose my tutor in Westron. I would come with you, Tolm, but I need to convince Tarlos that I can be trusted to make a good guard.’

‘Maybe they’d let me go with him dressed as a lord, and Tom can be my slave,’ said Catos hopefully.

‘No,’ said Faros.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I say so.’

‘You’re not my... Oh.’ His face fell. ‘Well, it’s not fair. Why can’t I do something to help?’

Tom took his hand, and dredged up reserves of patience. ‘You just did. And if I’m not to be allowed out, I need you to go and talk to all the people you usually do. If you spread rumours through the slaves, those rumours will surface in all their households. Go to the inn and gossip with anyone who wants to listen, but speak to Tarlos first, and find out what he wants you to say.’ He yawned and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He felt exhausted. It had been a bad night and a hard day, and he was emotionally drained. He had kept himself in check, not wishing to be sent from the council, but now he felt as though he would fall down if he didn’t lie down soon. He wanted to curl around his pillow and imagine Barard in his arms. _Barard!_

He bowed his head, too tired to hold back any longer, as all that Barard had suffered and was suffering overwhelmed him. ‘Do you think he knows?’ he whispered. ‘Do you think he’s been told he’s to be executed?’

‘Oh, Tolm. I’ve no idea. No, wait! Don’t just lie down in your clothes. Let me help you.’

Tom waited passively while Faros released clasps and buttons and stripped him. He was imagining a dark cell with only straw to curl up on. Chains clinked as Barard shifted, trying to ease the pressure on his too-prominent bones, and small rustles and squeaks indicated he was not alone. The air was foetid and damp, and somewhere water was dripping. _Nothing to do but think. How long does each minute seem to you? Do you believe yourself forgotten?_

Faros tugged Tom’s trousers down and over his feet. ‘Tolm? _Tolm!_ Sit up and put on your shift, _then_ you can lie down.’ 

_Barard!_

An arm was slipped around him. ‘Yes, just hold him like that, Catos.’ His face was wiped. Soft cotton was pulled over his head.

‘What’s wrong with him, Faros? Why won’t he talk to us?’

_What have they done to you? Beaten! Alone! How have you borne it? Oh, my love. I just want to wake by your side, to be with you._

Laid onto the bed, Tom curled around his pillow, and his tears came. He didn’t know who stroked his back, but he was dimly aware of their voices.

‘I don’t understand. You and Tarlos are going to rescue him. Why’s Tolm so upset?’

‘Lots of reasons, I think. He only found out yesterday that Barard is alive, and he didn’t sleep last night. I think it is all too much.’

‘But you and Tarlos will rescue him?’

‘We can’t be certain, and... well, we don’t know what state Barard will be in, do we?’

‘Oh. You mean he may have lost his mind?’

‘Hush.’

_They had a double bed to themselves, and every night to enjoy it. It was beyond their expectation and added a glow to their days that mellowed their apprehension and fear of living among such big folk. To wake each morning relaxed in each other’s arms, in a way that was impossible when squashed together in a single bed, with the morning sun lighting up Barard’s hair in a glow of red-gold: this was a dream come true. Motes of dust danced in the shafts of sunlight, but Tom only had eyes for Barard lying dreamed in sleep. They had rarely been together without making frantic love, and this was a new experience, a chance to realise that lovemaking was of secondary importance to just being with Barard. Their appetite for fucking was robust and often drove them to urgency and roughness, but the moments that Tom treasured most were those sated after-moments when they just were._

_He reached out and stroked his palm down Barard’s back, following the subtle curves, and kissed Barard’s shoulder. He’d had hardly moved from the moment they’d separated the night before, when he’d collapsed from beneath Tom with a sigh. Now Barard stirred and rolled onto his side to caress Tom’s cheek with his fingertips. Tom gently kissed him before settling him into his arms._

_‘I love you.’_

_‘So much.’_

‘I wish I could tell him,’ whispered Tom. ‘I wish he knew I was here. I just... I just... I want him back, I want him safe. I can’t bear thinking about him chained and hurt. So scared. I’m so scared for him. How will I get through this week? How will Barard get through it?’

‘Hush, Tolm, hush. Let’s take each day as it comes, yes? We’ll see the man about forging the documents, and then you can go to meet the northern ambassador. Do you think it will be someone you know?’ Faros’s voice was very soothing, and Tom responded to the quiet question.

‘Most likely. I know almost everyone.’ 

‘That’s good. They’ll be pleased to see you. Close your eyes now. Go to sleep. I’ll be here. Hush now.’

‘It’s my birthday in a week.’

‘Is it? You’ve kept very quiet about that, but it’s a good omen.’

Tom gave a sob; Faros didn’t understand just how bad an omen it was. ‘No. _No!_ People die on my birthday! Those I love _die_ on my birthday!’

‘Hush. Not this time. Hush now.’

‘I’m...’ _So tired._ ‘I...’ 

Tom slept, but he didn’t feel particularly rested in the morning. Half-remembered dreams hovered between forgetfulness and full memory. He didn’t want to remember them, and he threw himself into teaching Faros the rudiments of swordsmanship, until Faros was called away for marching drill. Then Tom sat watching, and Catos joined him.

The boy was sweating freely after his sword practice, his slave-length hair straggling around his face. He rubbed the sweat away against his forearm and blew out his breath with a huff. Tom handed him a water skin, and Catos drank deeply. He sat quietly, and Tom knew without looking that he was following every move Faros made. The group Faros was training with was small, and Tom guessed these were the soldiers who would masquerade as Citadel Guards. The square was quieter than usual, no doubt a consequence of Sûlos's order for eight-hour watches. The night watch had retired, and those who must take the watch that led up to midnight had not yet risen. The swordsmith was there, though, and Tom could feel his two new knives snug against his body. He held his sheathed sword upright in front of him, the point of the scabbard resting on the ground between his feet, while his thumbs rubbed patterns over the pommel.

Despite his awareness of the focus of Catos’s attention, Tom’s thoughts were turned inward, turned to the week that stretched interminably before him. It wasn’t until Catos sighed dramatically that Tom realised his young friend wished to talk. 

‘What’s the matter, Catos?’

Catos shifted beside him, and his words came out in a rush. ‘Have I upset Faros? Have I done something wrong? I didn’t think he’d mind that I like men. He does. You do, and he doesn’t shun you. He held you last night until you slept, but he won’t touch me anymore. If I... if I touch him, he shies away as though I’d branded him.’ He bowed his forehead to his knees, and his breath hitched into a sob. ‘I wish I’d never said anything.’

‘Oh, Catos. It’s difficult for him, complicated.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re so very young. It would be easy for him to take advantage of you, if he wasn’t a man of honour.’

‘I’m not young, I’m not!’ Catos’s voice slipped from deep to high pitched, and Tom sighed.

‘Yes, Catos, you are young. It was easy for me and Barard - well, easy for me. We were about the same age; consent was given freely between us.’

‘Why wasn’t it easy for Barard?’

‘Because he knew he loved me that way long before I realised, a year or more, for all that he’s younger than me. But he waited. Partly he was scared, I think, but partly he wanted me to come to love him in the same way first.’

‘But if he didn’t say anything...’

Tom smiled at the memory. ‘Oh, he knew when it happened, we both knew when it happened.’ Catos stayed silent, his head still bowed, and Tom touched his arm. ‘Faros loves you, but maybe not the way you would like. He’s your guardian, and that’s like being asked to play the role of your father. Think about his past, Catos. Don’t you think he may worry about being no better than Bayos?’

‘Bayos! But it’s not like that! I’d like... I mean, I would...’ He tailed off, looking embarrassed.

‘I know it’s not like that. But maybe Faros can’t even allow himself to think of you in that way, maybe he’s trying to protect you by keeping his distance - _because_ he loves you. Maybe what you feel is just an infatuation, and will fade away, no harm done. No, listen to me, Catos! I know what you would say, but it _is_ possible this is just an infatuation on your part. You’ve been with us so much, you’ve not had a chance to see how you feel about girls, or even boys of your own age.’

‘I’m not stupid! I know how I feel!’

‘Then you’re going to have to prove it by your patience.’

‘Aaaaargh!’ Catos clenched his hands and threw back his head, banging it against the wall. Across the square a bark of reprimand made Tom look to Faros. The man had broken step and was looking towards them. The sharp reprimand was repeated, and Faros turned his eyes to the front, but Tom knew that he was worrying about what had made Catos yell out like that.

‘Ow,’ said Catos quietly, rubbing his head, and Tom smiled, seeing in the taut line of Catos’s neck and jaw that the soft lines of boyhood were hardening into those of a man.

‘My Barard is the most impulsive hobbit I know,’ said Tom, ‘but he can be so patient.’ _A year, alone? Oh, Eru!_ Tom forced his mind away from that thought, and managed another smile as he remembered losing himself in Barard’s green eyes. ‘I never guessed, you know. I never guessed how he was longing for me. He was just the hobbit I most liked to be with, and then one day I looked into his eyes, and just like that, I was in love.’

‘Oh, Tolm. I hope Tarlos and Faros are successful. What will you do... if Barard isn’t rescued? I mean...’ Catos bit his lip, his eyebrows drawn together into a worried frown. He looked close to tears.

‘Don’t let’s think about that, eh?’ That was not a discussion Tom wanted to have with Catos. ‘You said yourself, Faros will rescue him. Look, here’s Tarlos.’

Tarlos had come to tell them that a meeting had been arranged with the forger. He held a hand out to Tom and pulled him to his feet. ‘You look tired, my friend. Are you coming, Catos?’

‘No, I’ll stop here.’ Catos wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his chin on his knees, and went back to watching Faros.

‘More and more I see glimpses of the fine man he will be,’ said Tarlos as they made their way across the square. 

‘Not soon enough for his liking,’ answered Tom. ‘I think he had to grow up too fast, caring for his younger brother, and now he wants to be treated as a man.’

‘He has to earn that by his actions. As for his brother, I hope to have good news soon; I am just waiting for confirmation that the child has been freed. He’ll be cared for in the south, until we know how we fare here.’

Tom stopped in his tracks to look up at Tarlos with delight. ‘Really? Catos will be over the moon. His brother means a lot to him.’

Tarlos laughed. ‘“Over the moon”? Were do you find these expressions?’

‘It’s from a song that my father used to sing us, about a cow that jumped over the moon. It’s a lot of nonsense, but fun.’ 

They went first to Tom’s room, so he could become a slave again. The clothes were no hardship - they were comfortable and cool - but it was with reluctance that Tom clasped the cold metal around his neck and fastened the chain to keep it in place. ‘Is this man to be trusted?’ he asked as he straightened his tunic. ‘What do you know of him?’ He had no doubt that Tarlos would have found out a lot in a short space of time, and he wasn’t disappointed.

‘The man is an artist. In the past, he was successful and wealthy, with an estate by the river, but Daros seized it on some trumped-up charge and made him destitute. His patrons deserted him, and he was forced to find what work he could.’ Tarlos stood up from where he had been sitting on Faros’s bed and winked at Tom. ‘Of course, we are woefully ignorant of the fact that he is out of favour with the king, and we need some paintings for the palace... As for whether we can trust him, he has no love for Daros, and wants to help you any way he can, but I think I must insist he come to live here for the next few days under supervision, so we are not betrayed.’ He held the door open for Tom. ‘I hope that an offer to move his family to a better area will go a long way towards making that an acceptable condition, as will commissions for his work.’

It turned out to not only be acceptable, but to delight their forger; he prostrated himself before Tarlos with tears in his eyes and hugged Tom. ‘You are my lucky charm!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have heard others say the same; you bring good luck wherever you go! What is it you wish me to do?’ He nodded at their request. ‘I see, yes. So the Son of Justice that everyone is suddenly talking about is not only real, but he is to be executed? That will cause an outcry if it is known. I would like to play a part in rescuing him - even more so, since he is our little bird’s friend. We will make him fly away from under their noses, yes?’

‘You can prepare the papers for us?’ asked Tarlos. ‘With signature and seal?’

‘Of course, but I will need to leave here to visit the public archives and look at similar documents.’

‘I apologise for the implied lack of trust,’ said Tarlos, ‘but one of my men will accompany you. Tolmos, would you ask Balios to come here, please?’

Tom bowed to the artist, Gondorian style. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You gladden my heart. Barard is everything to me.’

He turned and ran from the room to find Balios. It was only the very first step, but it felt huge, momentous, as though Tarlos’s plan could really happen. _Oh, please let it happen!_ He was bubbling over with excitement, almost incoherent with it by the time he joined his two friends. Faros put a hand on either shoulder to steady him.

‘What, Tolm? What is it?’

‘He says he can do it, forge the papers!’ Tom blinked back tears as he looked up at Faros. _Shit! What’s the matter with me!_ He took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘I need to be doing something. I’m going to help muck out the horses.’ He knew that would earn him some solitude, since Faros was not very comfortable around horses, and Catos would stay with Faros. 

Mucking out had already finished, but his offer to help with grooming was accepted, and a wooden box found and upturned for him to stand on. The work was very soothing. He circled the curry comb over the animal’s body to loosen dirt, then worked through the sequence with the hard bristled brush, raising a small cloud of dust at each flick of his wrist. He finished with a soft brush, smoothing the coat down to a shine. The horse fidgeted, rolling its eyes and snorting a little when he hopped down to move the box as needed, but Tom hummed as he worked, and gradually the animal relaxed, resting one hind leg and half-closing its eyes. Tom finished with a careful check of each hoof, but there was no dirt packed around the frog, and the shoes were sound. He moved on to the next horse, just letting his mind drift with the rhythm of his hand’s movement. 

_The party was winding down now in the Party Field, and some of the candles that hung in lanterns from the mallorn tree’s branches had burnt down, deepening the shadows cast by the starlight as they flickered out. The night was the shortest of the year, and it would not be long before the first hint of the sun’s rising would be visible in the sky off towards Buckland. Tom stood gazing that way, lost in memories of their trip to Minas Tirith, a plan growing in his drink-befuddled mind. A hand, stroking over his shoulder and falling away, made him jump, and he turned, knowing Barard would be there. Only Barard touched him like that: a fleeting caress for when they were in company, that nevertheless managed to be intimate and full of promise._

_‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump. What were you wool-gathering about?’_

_Tom smiled, swaying slightly, and took the water Barard held out to him; he drank half and then waved the glass around, trying to get his thoughts in order. ‘I wajsh thinking I might do murder if ‘nother Shire worthy asked me what I wajsh going to do wiv my life now’ve come of age.’ He yawned; it was becoming an effort to sound coherent. ‘I cou’n’t very well say, take you t’bed an’ fuck you sensheless now I’ve got me own smial.’_

_‘I never noticed that not having your own smial stopped you.’_

_‘And I’ve nev’r... nev’r noticed that bein’ at a crowded party shtopped you.’_

_‘Well, I was tempted to drag you under the stage I helped set up for the musicians, but you know... your party. Bad form to disappear. Anyway, you wanted us to keep apart, remember? Seeing as how you can’t look at me in a fine waistcoat without wanting to nail me to the ground.’ Barard lazily undid the buttons of his best silk waistcoat, and Tom followed the teasing fingers with his eyes; he did indeed want to nail Barard to the ground, to a tree - anything really - but he wasn’t sure about his co-ordination. ‘Anyway,’ said Barard, as the last button came free, and the waistcoat fell open over a fine white shirt that moulded to his body and quickened Tom’s breath, ‘I’m looking forward to spending what’s left of the night in your new home.’_

_Tom shook his head, and then regretted it as the stars swayed drunkenly. ‘Wrong,’ he said._

_Barard’s face became very still. ‘Why “wrong”?’ he asked quietly, and Tom wanted to kick himself, and kiss that look of hurt bewilderment away._

_‘Pillock,’ he said. ‘I’m pished and you’re bein’... pillock. It’s our new home. See? Not mine. Never mine. Ours!’ He was drunk enough to put his arms around Barard, spilling water as he did so. Barard supported him, and only Frodo’s voice, amused with a hint of condescending-older-brother, stopped Tom from nuzzling at Barard’s ear._

_‘Oh, dear, he’s got to the amorous stage. Honestly, Tom, couldn’t you have found a girl? Poor Barard, I can’t think how he puts up with you. Come on, Merry, let’s get the birthday boy to bed. There’s one consolation: if he pukes up in his hole, he’ll be the one as has to clean it up.’_

_‘No problem.’ From the voice, Robin was there as well, but the world seemed to be spinning worse than before, and Tom closed his eyes. Drinking the water appeared to have been a mistake. He tried to concentrate on what Robin was saying. ‘I’ll help Barard get him to bed; no need for you two to worry. Then I think Barard or me should stay with him.’_

_‘I don’t mind,’ said Barard. ‘I’ll stay with him.’_

_‘If you two are sure,’ said Merry. Tom heard the relief in his voice at not having to play nursemaid, and Robin laughed._

_‘No doubt your twins’ll wake you at the crack of dawn, Mer, and that’s not far away. Go! Get some sleep!’_

_‘Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep on his back, then.’_

_Someone took the glass from his hand, and Tom slumped further into Barard’s arms. He gave a contented hum as he felt Barard tighten his hold, and he laid his head against Barard’s shoulder. His legs seemed very distant and not under his control. ‘Bar’d’ll loog after me,’ he slurred. ‘Bar’d alwaysh loogs after me.’_

_‘Yes, we’d noticed,’ said Frodo dryly. ‘And you look out for him. You might as well be joined at the hip.’_

_‘Thatsh ‘cos I love him. I love you, Bar’d.’_

_‘Just how much has he had to drink?’ asked Merry, laughter in his voice. ‘Oh, I’m looking forward to reminding him about this in the morning!’_

_Tom looked up at Barard blurred against the stars, and tried to bring his face into focus. Shit! That wasn’t something he should have said, but Barard just smiled. ‘Don’t make it too early, then,’ he said. ‘I think he’ll have to work off his hangover first.’ He pulled Tom more upright and hauled one of Tom’s arms around his neck. ‘Come on, lover boy, let’s get you to bed.’_

_Tom heard Frodo’s and Merry’s laughter fade into the distance. He concentrated on trying to make his feet behave, but they showed a distressing tendency to tangle around each other. Robin came and shored him up on the other side, and somehow he and Barard guided Tom to New Row. Barard took his weight as Robin opened the door and lit candles, and Tom blinked as the room flickered into life. It was furnished with a mishmash of whatever friends and relations could spare, but what it lacked in style it more than made up for in being his own place._

_‘Sorry,’ he mumbled into the silk of Barard’s waistcoat as he sagged down again, and Barard steered him neatly into an old frayed armchair._

_‘For what? Being drunk? Or trying to tell Frodo and Merry? If you want to tell them, that’s fine by me, but maybe best to make that decision when you’re sober.’_

_‘I’ve no idea how you’ve managed to keep it secret so long,’ said Robin, coming to sit on the arm of the chair. ‘Nigh on eight years you two’ve been in each other’s breeches whenever chance allows. Do you want me to help you get him to bed, Barard? Or can you manage?’_

_‘I c’n manage,’ said Tom._

_Robin laughed. ‘Good luck with him. I’ll see you later. I’ve got some news, but I thought I’d wait until Tom’s birthday was over, and now I’ll wait until he’s sober.’_

_‘Éowyn ‘sgoing to marry you!’ exclaimed Tom. He jolted upright and tried to stand to hug Robin, but he fell sideways, into Barard’s arms._

_The next thing he remembered was waking in their bed with a dry mouth and thumping headache. He had no idea what the time was, since the bedrooms in the tiny smial were delved back into the hillside, with no windows. He groaned, and felt Barard move against him._

_‘Tom?’_

_‘Guh?’_

_‘How are you feeling?’_

_‘Guh.’_

_Barard kissed him lightly on the temple. Tom wanted to protest as the warmth pressed against his back was lost, but his tongue appeared to be glued to the roof of his mouth. The bed creaked, and candlelight flickered in the room. Tom buried his head beneath his arm; even through closed eyelids, the light was too bright._

_‘Poor love.’ Barard’s breath whispered across his cheek. He must have come round the bed to crouch at Tom’s side. Fingers brushed hair away from Tom’s brow. ‘What possessed you to drink so much?’_

_‘Angelica.’_

_‘Angelica!’_

_‘She was after me. And her ma, telling me what a fine couple we’d make.’ Tom shivered at the memory. ‘Everyone asking me what I’m going to do with my life now I’ve come of age. Aunty May telling me how well all my brothers have done, and asking me when I was going to settle down with a nice lass.’ He lifted his head and stared blearily at Barard. ‘Where were you?’_

_‘You know the answer to that; it was your idea we should keep our distance. It was a good party, ‘part from that, and ‘part from the fact I was hoping for a lusty shag last night. I’m going to get you a drink. Can you face some food? It’s probably after noon. You’ve got a few hours to recover before we’re expected at Bag End for supper.’_

_‘No food.’_

_Barard stood up, and kissed him again. ‘I’ll get you that drink, then.’ Tom closed his eyes against the light as Barard left the bedroom door open. The sound of the pump reverberated painfully round his head, and then Barard was back with a glass. ‘Come on, love. Sit up.’_

_Tom struggled to obey, and drank down a sweet cordial made of that year’s elderflowers. He drew Barard down into a kiss, and gave in to a different intoxication._

_‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said quietly as they parted._

_‘Sounds dangerous.’_

_‘No, listen. I want us to be together. Would you come to Minas Tirith with me? Just us, I mean, not with your father.’_

_‘If that’s what you want, of course I will. Any particular reason?’_

_‘I want to try trading up the Greenway. Do you think that’s stupid? There’s all sorts of things in Rohan and Gondor that I think hobbits would buy.’_

_‘We should start small. We’ve got enough money to live on, with my allowance and what your da’s gifted you for your Coming of Age.’_

_Tom sighed in relief, and pulled Barard into bed with him. He wasn’t feeling in a fit state to discuss details, but Barard’s easy acceptance gave him a glow of warmth. Suddenly, just like that, they had a future together._

Tom leant his head against the horse’s flank, and blinked back tears. Did they still have a future together? Had that drunken decision led them inexorably to Barard’s death? The horse shifted, and Tom pulled himself together. If they didn’t have a future, they at least had a past. Nearly thirty years contained a lot of memories. Some of his younger nephews and nieces had called him Uncle Tom-and-Barard on his last visit to the Shire, never having heard him spoken of without Barard’s name being added. A year ago! That had been a year ago, and most of that time Barard had spent imprisoned. His mind shied away again from thinking too closely about that; he didn’t want to think of what the long confinement might have done to Barard - what Tarlos and Faros had hinted at, and what Catos had spoken of openly. 

He waited until that evening to raise the matter of his going to meet the Gondorians, and Sûlos not only assured him of someone to take the role of his master, but also promised a small guard.

‘I think the further from Hafar you meet with them, the better,’ said Tarlos. ‘You should start out tomorrow.’ 

Tom was relieved. He had no wish to trail about the palace for a week, trying to distract himself as the date of execution loomed. Far better to be on the move. He took all the advice he was given, and set out in the small hours of the morning. By necessity, he rode a horse: sixteen spans of a man’s hand to the withers, he would judge, and therefore much taller than anything he had ridden before. It was the smallest horse Sûlos had in his stables, and biddable. Tom wore the garb of a slave, the metal collar around his neck once more, but with a company of twenty men, it was easy to stay hidden. 

They rode out of the city by the south gate before first light, a wealthy merchant accompanied by his slaves and guards, but as soon as they were out of sight of the city, they turned west. The land gradually changed from flood plain to low broken hills as they followed the wide sweep of the river around the city, and by the time the sun rose, they were well hidden in the rocky landscape. As the sun climbed high in a deep blue sky, there was little shade to be had. Their horses’ hooves kicked up a fine red dust that settled over them, but Tom’s companions knew of a spring that rose bubbling and gushing from the ground, to flow away towards the river somewhere out of sight. Trees and bushes clustered thickly around a wide pool, and the cool green was restful after the glare of the sun. Tom dismounted by part sliding, part jumping to the ground, and they led their horses in single file along a well-beaten track to the water’s edge. 

Their coming disturbed some wild animal that went crashing away through the undergrowth, but they never saw it. The men sheathed their swords as the noise faded, and Tom was relieved to see that the mud around the water showed only cloven prints of some grazing animal. They drank, bathed their faces - and in Tom’s case, feet - and allowed their horses to stand in the water and drink their fill. A noon meal of bread, cheese, and cold meats was quickly eaten, and two men stood watch while the rest of the company slept. It was late afternoon when Tom was roused by one of the men, who appeared to have been given the role of Tom’s personal servant. He helped Tom to mount and handed him a filled water bottle.

They continued late into the night, a half moon, bright in the sky over Hafar, casting shadows before them as they headed due west. Early on the third day, as they picked their way through the last of the low hills that gave way to the flat lands stretching to Umbar’s border, one of their scouts came riding back in the moonlight to report a camp ahead. They climbed cautiously to a vantage point, keeping low to the ground. Lights were twinkling below, and Tom could see sentries pacing back and forth. Occasionally a soldier showed in sharp relief as he passed before a fire. Tom let out a sigh at the familiar silhouette of Gondorian armour. A tension he had not known he held left him, and he bowed his head to the ground.

‘What do you wish to do, Tolman?’

‘If we all ride out, they may think we are brigands,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll go alone.’

‘We don’t yet know who they are,’ said the scout.

Tom smiled at him. ‘I know,’ he said.

He was almost laughing as he rode from the shelter of the hills, keeping the horse’s pace slow to avoid alarm. His hobbit love of surprises was bubbling to the surface, and he didn’t call out. As he reached the camp, his excitement mounting, half a dozen unknown men blocked his way. Tom swung out of the saddle and dismounted by dropping to the ground; he steadied himself, and bowed to them Gondorian fashion, too full of joy at this meeting to speak. There was a murmur of surprise.

‘Welcome, stranger,’ said their captain. ‘Do - you - speak - Westron?’ He was speaking slowly and clearly. Tom just grinned up at him; he wanted to hug the man. ‘The child is a slave, I think.’ The captain turned to one of his men. ‘Fetch that interpreter chap.’ Tom opened his mouth to speak, but a familiar voice made his breath catch in his throat.

‘I’m here; let me through.’ 

Hanril! With a cry, Tom ran forward, but was grabbed by a soldier. ‘Oh, no you don’t, you little heathen.’ He froze as a knife was held at his throat, and his eyes met Hanril’s.

 _‘Tom?’_ Hanril gasped in surprise and turned to the soldiers. ‘For Eru’s sake. It’s the perian we seek. Let him go! Let him go, _now!’_

‘Sir, there is a force riding out from the hills!’

Released, Tom spun around to see his Haradrim riding to his rescue. ‘Help me mount, Hanril,’ he said, not even sure which language he was using, and without hesitation Hanril bent with linked fingers to boost him onto his horse’s back. The Gondorian captain was signalling the call to arms as Tom kicked his heels into his horse’s side and rode to meet his would-be rescuers. The Haradrim slowed as Tom approached, reined in their horses, and milled around him.

‘What happened, my lord?’ asked one.

‘A misunderstanding,’ said Tom. ‘My fault. Dismount and walk with me, but let me go in front, and for love of the Lady, sheath your swords!’ He led them back to the Gondorian camp, feeling rather foolish. Hanril came running forward, and Tom was aware of hands tightening on sword hilts beside him. ‘Peace,’ he cried, his voice shaking. ‘He is a friend.’ Hanril dropped to one knee, arms outstretched, and Tom threw himself into his embrace with a sob.

‘Tom! I thought we’d lost you!’

‘Hanril. It’s so good to see you.’ He felt like a small hobbit lad at Yuletide, full of excitement.

‘So, these soldiers learn the hard way,’ said another familiar voice, carrying a soft music in the laughter that was not heard in the voices of men. ‘Hobbits are trouble.’ 

Tom pushed free of Hanril’s embrace. ‘Legolas!’ Without thinking, he dropped to his knees and bowed low to kiss the elf’s feet. There was a murmur of surprise from the Gondorians, and someone laughed, but at least it showed Tom’s companions who the ambassador was.

As he knelt back onto his heels, Legolas lifted him off the ground to swing him up and hug him, then cleared his throat self-consciously. He set Tom down again, and laughed, a sound that made Tom’s heart leap with joy. ‘What are you doing riding into our camp and frightening the guards, you woolly-pated rascal?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom. ‘I truly am.’ 

‘No harm to keep them on their toes. What news of Barard? Were you looking for us, or is this a chance meeting?’

‘I was riding to meet you, knowing only that the king was sending an ambassador. I would talk with you in private.’ He looked up, past Legolas, and nearly choked. ‘Prince Barahir! My lord!’ This was a serious message to Daros; if harm befell the Prince of Ithilien, it would be an act of aggression that Gondor could not ignore. He repeated the obeisance deliberately, for the benefit of the Haradrim.

Barahir smiled down at him. ‘Well met, Sam’s son,’ he said, and Tom was struck again at how closely this man resembled his grandfather, Prince Faramir. 

The captain of the Gondorian guard stepped forward. ‘My lords, the meeting of friends in unexpected places is to be welcomed, but I would counsel against too much trust in this Halfling. He conducts himself as a heathen Southron, has clearly gone over to their ways, and we cannot know his true intent in this.’ 

Barahir roared with laughter, and the Haradrim looked uncertainly between Tom and the man who had spoken, apparently realising that there was some dissension. Tom hid his anger at the slur to his honour, and left it to Legolas to defend him. For his companions to see him arguing heatedly would simply raise their anxiety for his safety. He touched Hanril’s arm. ‘Will you stay here?’ he asked. ‘Make sure no misunderstandings arise? We are all friends together. They are helping me, helping Barard.’

‘What of Barard?’ asked Hanril.

‘He lives, at least for now. Time is short; we cannot stay here long. By sunrise we must be gone. Let me speak with Legolas and Prince Barahir, and then, if there is time, we’ll talk.’

Hanril nodded and bowed, and Tom followed Gondor’s ambassadors to one side. ‘My lords,’ he said without preamble, as soon as they were seated, cutting across their questions, ‘you will be in danger in Hafar. There is one who is the rightful king, one who seeks to overthrow Daros; his name is Sûlos. He is a man who I believe will rule wisely and be open to friendship with Gondor. If you are not careful, I fear you will find yourselves trapped in the Citadel when the fighting begins. Possibly Daros will turn on you, believing that you are privy to the plot.’

Legolas and Barahir heard him out, but Barahir leaned forward as Tom finished. ‘How do you know this, Tom?’

Tom nodded back to his Haradrim companions. ‘These men are Sûlos's; I know it because I am in his household. He cannot delay - already there has been an attempt on his life. Daros has planned a public... entertainment for you, and Sûlos must seize the opportunity this gives him. He bids me hold out the hand of friendship to you.’

‘We cannot act with him, Tom,’ said Legolas. ‘You must see that?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Tom. ‘Sûlos sends this advice. Do not stay in the city. Camp outside with your men. Daros will welcome you with a great feast. Return to your camp afterwards and stay there. In the morning, the fighting will start.’

Legolas nodded. ‘Yes, that we can do. Daros has already hinted at some great spectacle he has in store for us, but I know not what it is.’

‘If all goes to plan, it will not take place,’ said Tom. His hands clenched together in his lap, and his breathing quickened.

‘Tom? What is it?’

Tom closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He was trembling as he looked up at Legolas. ‘Barard is to be executed.’

 _‘What!’_ They had sat out of hearing of the soldiers, but now heads turned their way at the shocked exclamations. 

‘My friends are going to try and rescue him in the early hours of the morning of the execution; it will signal the beginning of the attempt to overthrow Daros.’

‘And if they are not successful?’

‘We will not meet again.’ He forestalled Barahir’s protests. ‘Listen. You will meet Mehos, although you may not recognise him. He will be close to the king. Karios is his real name. Do not trust him. I have no doubt that he betrayed me into slavery. He will scratch his head like this.’ Tom demonstrated.

 _‘Slavery!_ Tom, that collar! Are you a slave now?’ 

‘No, but I have been until very recently; now it is no more than a disguise. We will break fast, and then leave.’

‘I will order the cook to make an early meal.’

‘Not on our account. We have our own food. I would rather be well away by daylight. This moon shows us up too well as it is. Now, tell me quickly. How is Pippin?’

‘He is failing,’ said Legolas sadly. ‘But his son, Faramir, is with him, as is your brother Frodo.’

Tom looked at him in surprise. ‘Frodo? Faramir? In Minas Tirith?’

‘They wait for news of you and Barard,’ said Barahir. ‘Let us hope that we have some good news to send them soon.’

Tom swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. He answered their questions about Sûlos, convincing them that this was a serious and well-planned attempt to overthrow Daros, and then joined Hanril. His Haradrim guard didn’t seem to know quite what to make of Hanril, but once they discovered that his mother had been enslaved by the corsairs, they started questioning him about her background. Hanril knew little of this, but it didn’t seem to matter: the Haradrim had decided he was one of their own - a member of an oppressed House. Tom spoke quietly to him as they ate, telling him of the treachery of Mehos, and what he had learnt about Barard. Hanril wiped his eyes and sniffed, and as they parted, he hugged Tom in a fierce embrace. 

‘It’s hard to let you go again, having found you against all our expectations,’ he said. ‘Take care of yourself, and bring Barard safely home.’ Tom nodded, but when he sought Legolas out, he had a request for the Elf’s ears only.

Legolas knelt to say farewell, and Tom spoke quietly. ‘I doubt it will be possible, but if all our plans come to ruin, will you try and recover our bodies? I think our families would be grateful for that, but do not put yourself in danger.’ 

Legolas took Tom’s hands between his own. ‘I hope it will not come to that, dear friend, but go assured that I will do all in my power to take you home, not leave you to lie in foreign soil.’

Tom nodded and took a deep breath. Legolas kissed his brow. ‘Namárië,’ he said, as they embraced. ‘May we meet again soon.’ 

One of the Haradrim helped Tom mount, and they rode away in haste, to be back amongst the low hills before the sun showed them clearly to any unfriendly eyes. Already the sky was lightening in the east, and the moon’s brightness was fading. Birds were calling, although Tom could neither recognise their voices nor work out where they were hidden. An eerie yipping that seemed to come from all directions at once made him look around, but he could see no sign of the animal making it. 

They pushed on, making faster progress now that they were not worried about missing the Gondorians, but their scouts were still busy: they had no wish to run into brigands, or soldiers of Daros. Tom wanted to be back in Hafar before the Gondorians arrived, but his way was the longer, as his company once more made a wide detour of the city, to approach from the south. On the second day, their scouts rode back to report that Sûlos's army was camped between them and the river, but Tom saw no sign of them, and he marvelled that they could be so well hidden amongst the low hills. The next morning they broke camp early and were at the gate before sunrise, to enter with the delivery wagons coming up from the south. The streets were deserted, but they rode through back ways to the large gates in a high stone archway that led into the palace barracks. At the password, the gates were unbarred, and they entered a wide passageway enclosed by an arching roof. The gates behind them were fastened shut, and the horses fidgeted in the dark as their riders waited for the inner gates to open. They rode into the square in the pale light of dawn, and men came running to take their horses. Somewhere a cock was crowing.

Tom slid from his horse and walked stiffly through the palace. He turned down the offer of food - his stomach rebelled at the idea - and tired though he was, he made his way to the herb garden rather than seeking his bed. He sat down heavily and gazed up at the square of sky above him. A pink glow deepened to gold, and then faded into dazzling blue. By this time tomorrow, he would either hold Barard in his arms, or know they had failed. He picked some aromatic leaves, crushing them between his fingers, and breathed deeply to savour the smell. A small bird, jewel-like in the brilliance of its green and red plumage, picked over fallen leaves for insects, the tiny rustling noises it made drawing Tom’s eye. As a window was thrown open in the palace kitchens, the bird took fright, and Tom watched it flying out of sight. He fingered the feathers at his neck. Maybe tomorrow he would be flying free, his last birthday gift to Barard.

A picture formed in his mind of Frodo pacing the wall of the sixth circle of Minas Tirith as the sun rose and the banners unfurled. He looked tired and anxious, but he tilted his head to watch as two eagles soared above him, their wings spread in the early morning light. They wheeled back, dipped their wings towards the small watching figure, and dwindled into specks that vanished behind the peak of Mindolluin. 

Tom wished he could hug his brother close; poor Frodo, who hated even the bustling atmosphere of Great Smials or Brandy Hall. How was he coping in a great city of men? He was there for his love of Tom, but - whatever happened tomorrow - it would be weeks before news of their fate came to the white city, and months before it reached the Shire. 


	11. Chapter 11

Tom sat in darkness in the covered wagon, tense and worried. It was the not knowing that was hardest to bear. Anything could be happening, and he was powerless to help. Through a chink in the wagon’s cover he could see one of the torches that burnt on either side of the Citadel gate. Occasionally a guard passed in front, shutting off the light. At least there were no sounds of an alarm being raised, but he had no way of knowing whether Tarlos and Faros had been discovered and arrested in the night.

He wasn’t quite sure how he had endured the previous day and the sleepless night that followed, as fear and excitement roiled together into a tight knot in his belly. He had been unable to eat, and the frequency of his visits to the privy had become a matter for laughing comment amongst the soldiers. Living through it, the day had seemed interminable, but now it came back to him as a series of happenings, as though a shutter blanked off the weary waiting between each event.

Faros had come and found him as he sat in the herb garden, lost in thoughts of home, but what after? His first clear memory was of Catos running in from outside, almost bursting with excitement at having seen the Gondorians enter the city under escort. Their strangeness, their pale skins and peculiar armour all fuelled his non-stop chatter, but it was the presence of an Elf that had driven him to fever pitch.

_‘He had pointy ears! He’s very tall; he almost seemed to shimmer. You really know him? There was a man riding beside him who has black hair like us, but his skin is very pale - almost white. There was one there who might have been a Haradrim. Is that your Hanril? Your servant? He was well dressed, not like a slave at all. There was a huge crowd, I had trouble finding somewhere I could watch. We had a long wait for them to appear. Everywhere there was talk and anger about the attack on Sûlos and Yanos last week, and there was a lot of talk about the execution. ‘Course,’ Catos smiled at Tom with confidence, ‘they don’t know it’s not going to happen, but people are very unhappy about a small one like you being executed, and even more so because he’s named bar-Ard. Everyone seems to know about the prophesy. There’ve been some disturbances and arrests while you’ve been away, did you know? There’s a lot of anger about that, as well.’_

Approaching footsteps made Tom duck down, ready to hide under the seat if any should look in. He clearly heard voices: a guard was talking to the driver of the wagon in which Tom hid.

‘Why do you wait here? Move on!’

‘I am here by order; see - these are the papers.’ There was a pause, no doubt while the guard read what was written, and Tom hardly breathed, not wanting to miss the smallest warning that their presence wasn’t accepted. 

‘What do you carry?’

‘Nothing. The wagon’s empty. I’ve not been told what it is I’m to collect at this unnatural hour in the morning. You know how it is; they don’t tell us lesser men anything. I don’t even know where I’m to go. I’ll be annoyed if I’m not back for the execution; my cousin’s up from the country for that, and I don’t often get to see him. What do you know about this spy? Is that why the Gondorians are here?’

‘It’s as you say. We lesser men aren’t told anything. I’ve not seen the spy, although I’ve heard about him. He’s dangerous, that I do know.’

Tom smiled with pride that Barard could have such a reputation when he was half his captors’ size, but the guard’s next words had him dropping to the floor and rolling under the long seat that ran down the length of the wagon. 

‘I’ll just have a look inside.’ 

‘Of course. Let me get it unlaced for you.’ The man took his time, fumbling at the lacings. ‘There, you see? All empty. What do you think they want me for?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose we’ll find out sometime before the night’s out, heh? Am I all right here, or do you want me to move up the street?’

‘No. You’re fine.’ There was the sound of footsteps, and Tom guessed the guard was crossing back to the gate. He waited a little before he eased out. The driver had been well chosen from among the soldiers. Listening to him, Tom would never have guessed that he was anything other than a put-upon drayman. The forger’s papers had stood them in good stead, but what of the paper that really mattered?

_‘Here, Tom. Here is the fine bit of work by your friend. Balios says that there is nothing to choose between this and the documents in the public archive.’_

_Tom reached out and touched the parchment where it lay on the table. The seal that the artist had made rolled away, and its imprint in wax stared up at Tom; an eye with a catlike pupil dominated the design. A signature sprawled across the bottom of the page, below a neat flowing script such as scribes used. Tom nodded to the forger, but couldn’t find any words to say. It did indeed look a fine piece of work, although he couldn’t read a word of it. The proof would be Barard, safe in his arms._

Tom tried to get a look at the moon, to gauge the time, but he couldn’t see it through the narrow view he had. He didn’t dare try to enlarge the opening, in case of discovery. Surely Tarlos and Faros should be here by now? It was a hard thought to bear, that others were risking their lives for his and Barad’s sake. He flopped down on the seat and hunched forward, feeling helpless. Faros and Tarlos had left with Sûlos the previous evening, Faros dressed as a slave.

_‘Faros, my friend. I don’t know how to thank you for doing this.’_

_Faros released himself from Tom’s embrace and stood. A look of concentration came over his face. ‘I must say,_ “I am friend of Tolm. I am taking you to Tolm.”’ 

_Tom nodded. ‘Yes, that’s good, but if he still struggles, try showing him this.’ He took out a simple drawing of a stoat, such as Barard always added to his letters. ‘There might not be enough light to see it, and... and being so much in the dark may have affected his sight, but it might help, and none would understand it except him.’_

_Faros looked at it in puzzlement. ‘A muskil of the desert? But how would he know? He doesn’t even know you’re here, that you’re a slave.’_

_Tom frowned at him. He was feeling stressed enough, without having such gibberish talked at him._

_‘I mean, how would he know you’re branded with a muskil?’ asked Faros, the strained patience in his voice showing that he too was holding himself in check._

_Tom looked at him in shock; he had no idea what a muskil was, but evidently it looked like a stoat. ‘This... I have...?_ This _is my brand,’ he croaked. Never had it occurred to him to ask what was seared into his flesh in silver-white scar lines. Catos carried a bird of some sort, Faros the outline of a tree; both patterns were set within a circle. He suddenly started laughing, and heads turned their way. Faros gave him a shake._

_‘Stop it, Tolm! Yes, this is your brand. Didn’t you know?’_

_Tom hiccupped and shook his head. Maybe it was a consequence of his not being able to face any food, but he felt light-headed. ‘The picture is a_ stoat,’ _he said. ‘Barard always drew it on his letters to me, and sometimes,’ - he struggled against his laughter, - ‘sometimes on things he wanted to claim as his own.’_

_‘Good,’ said Faros. ‘That is auspicious. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He turned and followed Sûlos and Tarlos out through the front entrance. Tom could see that litters were waiting there for Sûlos and Tarlos, but the size of the guard surprised him. He thought Tarlos planned to take just ten men._

_‘They’re not all staying,’ said Catos, just as though he’d read Tom’s thoughts. ‘They need enough guards so that a few missing won’t be noticed when Sûlos leaves the Citadel after the feast, and with the litters’ curtains closed, all will presume Tarlos is within.’_

_Tom nodded. That made sense. He glanced at Catos. The youngster’s eyes were overly bright, and he obviously needed something to think about, something other than the danger Faros would be in. Tom knew what he wanted to do, and Catos could help him. A few minutes later he was stripped of his tunic and standing in front of a mirror. Catos held another small looking-glass up behind him._

_‘It’s very clear,’ said Catos, and Tom had to agree with him._

Sitting in the wagon, Tom’s hand wandered to his shoulder. The skin around the scar still felt sensitive, even after all these months _Barard. I’m yours. Come back to me._ He listened carefully, but all was quiet. _Where are you? What’s happening?_ He had little to work on in his imagination. How many guards would there be in the dungeon? Could his friends overpower them before the alarm was raised if the plan went astray? Would Barard fight them all the way, bringing more guards upon them, who would discover the deception? 

Whatever happened here, the dice were cast. Yanos had waited only long enough to satisfy himself that Sûlos was safely returned from the Citadel; he had ridden out, just after midnight, to join his cavalry. Even now, men were deployed around the city, and Tom spared a thought for those who would be waylaid as they did no more than follow the orders of Daros. Those who did his bidding might not even like the man, but they were likely to die for him today. 

Tom yawned and rubbed his eyes. If he were to lie down now, he would be no more likely to fall asleep than earlier in the night, when he’d tossed and turned waiting for Balios to come and tell him it was time. He’d been unable to chew and swallow the food the servant brought, but had gratefully drunk a thick mess of bananas mashed into goats’ milk with a little honey. He’d felt better for it at the time; now he felt slightly sick. 

Suddenly he jerked up. There was the unmistakable tramp of feet walking in step. He peered through his narrow peephole, but he couldn’t see the gate itself.

‘Halt!’

Was that Tarlos’s voice? It was hard to tell. There was the sound of a gate opening, and an unknown voice called to the driver. ‘You! In here. Quickly now.’

As the wagon lurched forward and turned, Tom rolled under the seat again, pushing himself as far into the space as he could. He heard the horses’ hooves slither a little, and then there was the sound of gates being closed, but behind them this time, shutting them into the Citadel. Was this a trap? 

‘You two, with the driver.’ Tom’s heartbeat quickened. _That_ was Tarlos. ‘The rest of you, with the prisoner inside.’ He bowed his head as he lay in the dark. _The prisoner! They’ve got him!_ The cover was unlaced, letting in torchlight, but all Tom could see was feet, and they were blurred by the tears that he was helpless to stop. The wagon dipped slightly as each man climbed in. _Hurry, please hurry._ But they didn’t hurry. There was a clinking of chain on chain, then, ‘Have you got him? Careful. Don’t trust him for a minute. Remember what the dungeon guards said. Right. Let’s have the gate open again.’ The wagon dipped one last time, and Tom heard the gates grate open, the noise of their catching slightly on the flagged way clear to hear. The order was given to move out, the wagon gave a lurch again as the horses took up the slack in the traces, and then they were rolling downhill. Tarlos spoke in a low voice. ‘Quiet everyone; Tolman, stay where you are, just until we’re round the corner. Oh, dragons’ teeth! Keep him quiet, Faros!’

There was a sound of struggling. Chain clinked on chain again, followed by a thump and a curse. ‘I take you to Tolm,’ said Faros in heavily accented Westron, but he sounded breathless.

There was no reply, only more sounds of metal on metal, more thumps and ragged breathing. Tom didn’t wait for permission to come out; as far as he was concerned the whole point of his being there was to reassure Barard, and he desperately needed to touch him. Tarlos could go hang. He fought his way between legs that shifted to make way for him, and struggled up in the dark. ‘Where is he?’ he cried. A hand caught his. 

‘Hush. He’s here.’ 

Guided by the arm, Tom sat and was aware of men shifting, squeezing up to make room for him. A rank smell permeated the confined space. 

‘Faros?’

‘Yes, I’m here. For the Lady’s sake, calm him! I have him in my arms.’ A foot connected with Tom, a bare foot. He grabbed it by the heel, and stroked over matted fur.

‘Barard,’ he whispered. ‘Barard, it’s me. These are friends. Can you hear me?’

The foot stilled, trembling in Tom’s grasp. ‘Tom?’ There was a sob, and the foot went limp. 

‘Barard!’ Panic spiralled upwards as Tom searched desperately for, and failed to find, a pulse on Barard’s ankle. Instead, his questing fingers met the stickiness of fluid exuding from an open sore beneath the weight of cold metal. ‘Barard!’ 

‘He’s fainted, I think, Tolm,’ whispered Faros. ‘He’s very weak.’

‘Is he breathing? Let me hold him! Can’t we get these chains off him?’ 

‘Yes, and no, and not in the dark.’ The wagon swayed on a corner, and Tom bit back an angry reply. Faros was right. To try to move Barard while they were in motion and in the dark would be foolish. He pressed in close and sought blindly for Barard’s hand, whispering endearments for Barard to hear if he came back to consciousness. No one else would understand, although no doubt his tone conveyed much. He didn’t care. All that mattered was that Barard should wake to his voice. 

The wagon levelled out as they reached the lower city, and came to a halt. ‘I’m leaving you here,’ said Tarlos quietly. ‘Good luck.’ There was only the faintest sound of movement, a glimpse of torchlight, and he was gone to take command of the assault within the city. Tom knew the two men seated with the driver had left with Tarlos - his own small guard - but there had been no sound of voices. 

‘Can I hold -’ Tom began, but they were off again. Barard’s hand remained limp in his, and perhaps that was a good thing for the moment. After a while the driver poked his head through the front flap. 

‘Quietly now, lads,’ he said. ‘We’re coming to the gate.’

Tom held his breath, waiting for the challenge, but they trundled through with no questions asked: another empty delivery cart leaving Hafar. He longed for the horses to break into a trot, but they walked on at a sedate pace. Undoubtedly, to any guard watching, they were suitably nonchalant, but how long before Barard’s escape was discovered? Would all pursuit be prevented by Tarlos and his men, who were charged with securing the city?

The driver called his horses to halt, and one by one the men slipped out of the wagon. Tom reluctantly released Barard’s hand and let Faros carry his love. He scrambled down after them, hardly daring to believe that Barard was free. They were behind a high wall - part of a series of barns and byres - and another smaller covered cart stood waiting for them. Men lit torches, and in the wavering light, Tom could see Barard’s gaunt frame hanging limp in Faros’s arms. He reached up in mute appeal, and Faros knelt onto one knee to bring Barard down to his level. Tom smoothed back hair which straggled in matted filth across Barard’s emaciated face, and touched his fingertips to a livid bruise darkening one cheek. Ragged clothes did little to hide the festering sores that covered Barard’s body, and the metal bands at wrists and ankles had chafed and worried through the skin they bound. Tom choked on a sob, and held out his arms. 

‘Climb in first,’ said Faros, and his voice shook, as though he, too, were close to tears. ‘Climb in, and then you can hold him.’ 

Tom scrabbled up and wedged himself in a corner. Faros followed more slowly, hunched over his burden in the confined space. He bent down again to lay Barard carefully in Tom’s arms. The still form was distressingly light, and the rank smell was almost overpowering, but Tom was reassured by the slow rise and fall of Barard’s chest. He kissed Barard’s forehead, hugged him close. His tears flowed freely. There was no joy in this, only grief over what Barard had borne and fear of yet losing him.

_‘What does the healer say?’_

_‘That he could die at any moment, that there comes a time when a body is so thin that the heart just stops.’_

Very gently, he kissed Barard’s cracked lips. ‘Don’t die, my love. Don’t die. Your Tom’s here.’ 

He knew that outside the men would be shedding their Citadel uniforms and dressing as farm labourers, but he took no heed until they were crowding in. Faros unlocked the manacles, and Tom relinquished Barard - reluctantly and briefly - to allow a cloak to be wrapped around his still form. Tom pulled one on himself. If news of Barard’s escape had reached the guards at the gate, it was unlikely that they would be searching carts coming into the city; if they did - and if they didn’t search too closely - they would see peasants coming to the public execution, holding two sleeping children. The manacles were discarded, and swords stowed beneath the seats.

Barard stirred as he was placed back in Tom’s arms, and Tom murmured to him softly as they set off. Faros sat next to them, his arm around Tom to help brace him against sudden movements, as inevitably a wheel found one of the many ruts in the road. In a low voice, he filled Tom in on what had happened at the Citadel.

‘The dungeon guards made no difficulties, but I’d rather not go back there in a hurry. Everything about the place was corrupt, from the stinking air to the brutality of the jailers. Are they like that because the place makes them so, do you think? Or have they created its loathsomeness?’

Tom shrugged; he had no idea, but he was sure of one thing: if the Citadel fell to Sûlos, he would go and see for himself. He kissed Barard on the forehead again. Faros must have felt the shrug; he carried on, bending close to Tom’s ear.

‘They warned us that he had come close to strangling a guard with his chains, and they came with me to unfasten him from the wall. He started yelling at us and fighting at the chains, making it hard for the guards to release them. I’m sorry, Tolm; I had to help restrain him, both to avoid raising suspicion, and because the longer we were there, the greater the risk of discovery.’

‘The bruise on his face?’

‘Not me, I swear. I told the guards I had a charm that might help, but when I said the words you taught me, he just kept shouting something again and again - I don’t know what - and then he spat on one of his jailers. That’s when they struck him. Tarlos ordered them off, said the prisoner should not appear before the crowd with bruises all over him. He put the fear of the Eye into them.’ Faros gave a huff of laughter. ‘Your Barard has spirit, I’ll say that for him, and he kicks like a camel. There were plenty of torches for the guards to see what they were doing, and so I said again, _‘I take you to Tolm,’_ and I showed him the picture. He went very still, and then he just stared at me, and... and... a tear ran down his face. The guards took the opportunity to refasten the chain so it secured the manacles to each other, but I just wanted to... to kill them and release him. It wasn’t a nice feeling, so vengeful, but I knew we had to keep up the pretence, so I carried him out. At some point he started doubting us, and by the time we got to the gate, he was trying to fight me again.’

Tom took a deep steadying breath. Whatever Faros had wanted to do to the dungeon guards probably paled into insignificance beside his own thoughts on the matter, but Barard was here in his arms. That was all that mattered. O, great glory and splendour! Barard was here! The cart slowed, and then stopped, and Tom looked up in sudden fear. Torchlight filtered through the cart’s cover, casting a faint light to see by. Was this the gate? Voices could be clearly heard.

‘Do you have them?’

‘Yes. No problems.’

The men looked at each other in horror, and Tom felt for his knife. Silently, Faros took Barard, and held him so that his face was hidden. He tucked the cloak over the telltale hobbit feet. If they were betrayed, as seemed likely, there was little point playing this game, but for the moment there was nothing else to do. One of the men bent down silently to pull out their swords. 

There was some laughter, and they were moving again, but where were they going? Back to the Citadel? There was no way Tom was going to allow Barard to be imprisoned again. He felt panic rising, and concentrated on breathing deeply and evenly. He must stay calm. 

One man unsheathed his knife and crept forward. Stealthily, he drew back the front flap, and the next moment they all breathed a collective sigh; torches in sconces threw shadows over the old palace gates that led into the barracks. As the gates closed behind them, and the horses fidgeted in the darkness, the man who had drawn back the flap gave vent to the fear Tom had felt. ‘Fucking pits of fucking Angband, Kalos, what was that all about? We’ve all been shitting ourselves in here.’

‘What?’ said Kalos, his voice echoing a little. ‘Oh, it was just our lads. All’s well. We hold the south gate already.’

There was a spluttered laugh, and another said, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you, do you know that, Kalos? You could have fucking told us.’ 

The light increased as the inner gates opened, and the wagon jerked and rolled forward into the well-lit barrack square. 

‘Our little bird and his mate first.’

‘Let me carry him, Tolm.’

They climbed down, and Catos appeared, leaping joyfully around them. As the hood fell back from Barard’s face, Catos stilled and stared down at Tom with large eyes. ‘He looks terrible,’ he whispered. 

Tom had to agree. In the torchlight, Barard’s face was skull-like in its thinness, his closed eyes sunk in deep shadowed hollows. Catos swallowed and touched Tom’s arm. ‘This way. There’s a bed ready for him. Sûlos's physician or one of the other healers will be along as soon as they can. They’re busy at the moment.’

‘Casualties?’ asked Faros, and Catos nodded.

‘I’ve been helping.’

‘How are things going?’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. No, not that way; Sûlos said to use his rooms.’ Catos went first and opened the door, and Faros carried Barard through to lay him on the bed. Catos pulled aside a tapestry, and pushed open a door behind. ‘If the palace is overrun, you can try hiding here.’ 

Tom nodded to show he understood, but he only gave the tapestry the briefest glance. He climbed onto the bed and knelt over Barard. The worn and ragged clothes, similar to a slave’s, were filthy and would have to go. Tom ripped the ragged tunic from bottom to top, his eyes following the movement of his hands; he looked up to find Barard’s eyes fixed on him. 

‘These dreams are the hardest,’ Barard whispered in a croak. ‘Do you know that, Tom? They’re the hardest. I see you, and I believe for a moment that I’m free, and then I wake, and nothing’s changed.’ He reached a shaking hand towards Tom, and Tom took it. His own eyes filled with tears again. 

‘I’m here, love.’ He turned the hand and pressed a kiss into the palm.

Barard closed his eyes. ‘This is a good dream. I wish you were really here, and I could tell you I’m sorry.’

‘I am really here, my love.’ He couldn’t keep his voice steady. Leaning forward, he kissed Barard on the mouth. He felt Barard’s lips curve into a small smile beneath his.

‘Don’t let me wake up.’ 

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Catos.

‘That he thinks he’s dreaming,’ said Tom, and Barard’s eyes went wide. His nostrils dilated in fear, and Tom could feel him trembling. 

‘No. Please, no. Stay with me, Tom. Don’t go. Don’t turn into one of them.’ 

‘I’m here,’ said Tom, gently, turning back to Westron again. ‘I’m not going to leave you.’ Barard’s eyes wandered away, losing focus, and Tom touched the side of his face with his free hand. ‘Look at me, Barard. There are only friends here. We need to get these filthy clothes off, get you cleaned up, treat your wounds. Would you like a drink?’

Barard gave a soft snort. ‘As I’m dreaming, a pint at the Ivy Bush would be good.’ Tom blinked back tears; Barard’s voice was weak, barely audible, he didn’t believe he was free, and he could _still_ make this small joke. Barard closed his eyes again. ‘If you were real, you could tell the king.’

‘Tell him what, love?’ Tom’s thumb circled against Barard’s palm.

‘About the army.’

‘You can tell him yourself in a few weeks. We’re going home, when you’re well enough.’

‘It’s probably too late; they caught me. I’m sorry. I saw the signals.’

‘Don’t worry. You’re free, now.’

Barard’s eyes opened again, and his eyebrows drew together in a frown. ‘He must be warned!’

‘Hush, love. You’re safe. Lie still, now.’ He tried to stop Barard from sitting up, but Barard clutched at him frantically.

‘There were lights in the hills. An army. In the north. I _saw_ them!’ His eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went limp in Tom’s arms. Tom laid him back down, and wondered if Barard had any idea how long he’d been imprisoned, how old any news he had might be. He clasped Barard’s hand against his breast and looked up at Faros and Catos.

‘What is it, Tolm?’

‘He said they caught him, that there was an army in the north, he saw the signals. He seems to think there was or is some danger to Gondor.’

‘The third army!’ exclaimed Faros. ‘Where? Where is it?’

‘Was, Faros. He‘s been in the dungeon a year. Do you think he really was spying?’ 

‘What signals?’

‘Lights.’ Tom stared at Faros in sudden horror. ‘Morgoth's balls! The signalling station. There _must_ be someone to signal to. Maybe they _are_ still there.’ He looked out of the window; it was not far off dawn. ‘If they are there, then signalling can start when the sun is up. Catos, go and see if you can find out what news there is. Does Tarlos hold the Citadel hill?’ 

Catos jumped up and ran out, nearly knocking into servants bringing hot water and a large tub normally used for laundry. It made a good hobbit-sized bath. Tom took advantage of Barard’s insensibility to strip him, and Faros held him while Tom sheared off his hair. The result looked worse, not better, revealing more sores; his head would have to be shaved properly to remove the ragged tufts that remained, but they could at least wash his scalp now. They were just lifting him from the warm bath and wrapping him in towels when Catos returned, panting.

‘We hold all the lower city. No one can leave to call for reinforcements, but there’s fighting on the Citadel hill. I went to find the soldiers who came back with you -’

‘Good.’

‘- but they’ve all gone.’

‘I’ll go and find Tarlos.’ Faros lifted his sword belt and strapped it in place. ‘I can at least show him the direction the lights came from.’ 

Catos grabbed his hand. ‘Let me come with you.’ 

‘No!’ said Faros, then more softly. ‘No, Catos. Stay and help Tolm. I need to know you’re somewhere safe.’

‘Nowhere’s safe.’

‘Some places are safer than others. That’s why Barard is here.’ He strode out. 

Catos swore, and then sighed. He muttered something Tom did not catch, but it was probably some variation of “It’s not fair!” The youngster came to look down at Barard. ‘Balios says someone will be along soon to look at him.’ Tom nodded. The sores where manacles had chafed at wrists and ankles were weeping and crusted, and some of the ulcers on Barard’s body oozed pus. Scarring from whiplashes criss-crossed his back, and two more scars on his head gave evidence of other injuries. 

Tom looked out again at the light growing in the sky. If the third army arrived too soon, Yanos might not have the men to deal with them. They would overwhelm the defences on the wall, and retake the city. If that happened, Catos was right: nowhere would be safe. Barard would die - by Tom’s hand if necessary. He stroked Barard’s face and linked their fingers together. So fragile! Barard looked so fragile. ‘I want to keep you safe, my love,’ Tom whispered. ‘I know I told you I wouldn’t leave you, but I think I have to.’ He looked around at Catos. It was a lot to ask of him, to stay with a sick Halfling who might do injury to him. Tom was dithering - torn between his need to stay and his need to go - when the physician arrived with Balios. 

As the physician bent to examine his patient, Barard’s eyes opened. He stared at Tom for a moment, looking confused and frightened, then his gaze focused past him. He yelled out, struggling to get away from Tom’s arms.

‘We must calm him,’ said the physician, as though Tom wasn’t doing his best already. ‘He’s too thin for this, Tolman. I’ve seen others in such a state, and the heart can suddenly fail. May I give him half the dose of sedative I gave you? I won’t deny there’s a danger, but I judge the danger is greater if I do nothing.’

Tom nodded, fighting to contain flailing limbs. There seemed no real choice; Barard was hysterical. No wonder Faros had apologised for having to restrain him. ‘Barard, it’s me. Look at me, Barard. It’s your Tom.’ 

Barard didn’t appear to hear him, and Tom was forced to pin his arms to his sides and lay over his arching body. It was such a travesty of past times that Tom could not hold back his tears. He averted his eyes as the physician forced some sort of gag into Barard’s mouth. This was not how it was supposed to be! Barard was free, but still chained in his mind, and they were only adding to his fear. 

Tom was shaking uncontrollably by the time Barard relaxed beneath him, and his face was wet with tears. He rubbed them away and struggled off the bed. ‘How long will he sleep?’ he asked.

‘An hour, at least.’

‘Catos, stay with him. Balios?’

‘Yes, I will help look after him.’

‘Thank you.’ 

Tom stroked his palm over Barard’s forehead and temple, and kissed the slack mouth. With difficulty, he tore himself away. Grabbing his sword, he ran through the palace, hampered by the fact his eyes were blurred and he was still shaking. At the great front doorway onto the market, he paused and peered cautiously out. The entrance was guarded, and a company of Sûlos’s men marched openly across the square towards the Citadel hill. Tom ran to follow in the wake of the soldiers, ignoring the calls of the guards. He was able to get halfway to the prison before his way was blocked by fighting. He tried doubling back through a small side street, but met a hail of arrows which he only narrowly dodged. No one pursued him as he beat a hasty retreat, and he guessed the defending soldiers feared being drawn into an ambush.

‘Little bird!’

Tom slithered to a halt and turned towards the soft call. A woman stood at an open door beckoning him in. She glanced fearfully around, and beckoned him again to hurry. He dodged inside. There were only women there, their eyes showing their fear.

‘What's happening, little bird? Our men have gone to join the fighting. Is it true that the House of the Sun has returned?’

‘Who do your men fight for?’ panted Tom, not having fully regained his breath.

‘I don’t know, but they fight against Daros.’

‘Then they fight for the true king,’ said Tom. ‘They fight for Sûlos.’ There was a murmur of approval, but Tom cut them short. ‘I must get up to the prison. I must get past Daros’s soldiers.’

‘Go out the back. There is a lane that will bring you out close to the prison, but it goes no further down the hill.’

Tom nodded. It was worth a try, and he could picture where it came out, not far from the signalling station, which was even better. Already there was too much light in the sky. The women showed him the way, and he ran on, aware that the scene must be repeated throughout the city: people huddling in their homes, fearful of looting, rape, even death. Would the city people who had joined the fighting know _how_ to fight? Would a change in the ruler really make much difference to their daily lives? He put these thoughts aside as he came to the end of the alley and peered out. He was in luck. He could hear the sound of fighting close by, but the streets were such a maze that there was nothing to be seen. Tom sidled along a wall, wanting to look both ways and protect his back at the same time, and came out at the vantage point where he had first seen the large mirror hanging on its pintles. There was a lot of activity around it - Daros’s men waiting impatiently to call for reinforcements - and it was clear to Tom that he could get no closer. 

Even as Tom watched, the first rays of the sun cleared the shoulder of the hill, and the mirror was tilted to meet her. He glanced out towards the northern hills, and saw an answering flash of light, swiftly followed by another. There was no time to lose. He cast around and found a small fall of rocks tumbled against the Citadel wall. Hurriedly, he picked out four stones of a suitable size, and hefted each in turn, judging their weight before he took aim with his first choice. The angle was difficult, but he had gravity on his side, and the stone flew true, to hit the mirror with a dull thud. A crack appeared across it. Heads turned, and hands shaded eyes against the low sun. Loud cries and fingers pointing to his ledge made it obvious he had been seen, but it would take a while for anyone to get round to his vantage point. As he let fly with a second stone, something struck his left shoulder with such force that he was thrown backwards against the prison wall; all the air was driven from his lungs in a high-pitch cry of shock. He slithered down the wall as his legs buckled. In a haze of pain, he heard the sound of breaking glass. Ha! 

:

‘Tolm! Tolm!’ _Catos? What was Catos doing here?_ ‘Tolm, get up. They’re coming. _Get up!’_

Tom stared rather stupidly at the arrow that had pierced his left shoulder, not able to believe he’d been struck. Aided by Catos, he struggled to his feet. He was shaking again - from the pain and shock this time. Catos half supported him, half carried him, until the sound of pursuit gave Tom the strength he needed to run. He was disorientated, and had no idea where they were heading. Catos opened a door and almost dragged Tom over the threshold. It was only as the door clanged to behind them that Tom realised they were inside the prison. He slumped down, panting with the pain; he was falling into a dark tunnel, and there was a roaring in his ears.

‘Dalmos!’ shouted Catos. ‘Are you here? _Dalmos!’_

‘Well, well. Here’s a couple of volunteers for a nice cell block, lads.’

That dragged Tom back to reality. His head came up, not sure how to take the welcome. It wasn’t Dalmos, and the tone was not friendly. He couldn’t blame Catos for trying this refuge, but if they were really going to be taken prisoner, they were so far in the shit that they might as well be neck deep in a cess pool and still sinking. With a great effort, he focused on the guards. There was no sign of Dalmos.

‘He’s hurt,’ cried Catos, and Tom could hear the panic in his voice. ‘Will you help us? Dalmos said you’d help us.’ Shouts and yells came faintly from outside, and something crashed against the door. It didn’t sound like pursuit, more like a fight. Tom judged the men to be leaderless and afraid. Catos appeared to have come to the same conclusion. His voice took on a new note of command.

‘For the Lady’s sake! What are you playing at? It’s only a matter of time before Sûlos's men are here, that’s probably them now, and you’ll be in serious trouble if you harm us. Sûlos owes a blood-debt to my friend, and I’m a ward of the House of the Sun!’

‘It’s true, then?’ said one man, but another, with more presence of mind, hastily bolted and barred the door. He picked up Tom and strode into an adjoining room. The world around Tom blurred and swirled into a mist of many colours; he was laid down - he knew that much - and as though from a great distance, a voice said, ‘There’s no surgeon here.’ 

‘Tolm! Tolm!’ That was Catos, but the swirling mist was coalescing back into the tunnel of darkness.

‘Barard!’ he mumbled. ‘Tell Barard I... Tell... Barard...’ 

When Tom came to himself, he felt too weak to open his eyes. His head was pillowed on something reassuringly soft. He tried to move, feeling the shift of his body against a mattress, but his left arm was folded across his body and bound there, and his right arm was trapped somehow. He tried wiggling the fingers of his right hand, but his arm had gone to sleep. Something that was pressed to his side twitched a little, and a weight he hadn’t noticed shifted across his legs, dragging against his skin as sweat resisted the movement. Very slowly he opened his eyes, and with difficulty focused on a ceiling bordered with twining roses. The palace, then. The room helped him make the connection between the fog that seemed to fill his mind and the dull ache in his left shoulder: he had been been dosed with a physic for the pain. 

Staring at the ceiling, Tom struggled to remember. There had been an arrow, and a great fear. Fear that he would not be there to comfort and soothe Barard when he woke, that he had left Barard when he had promised he would not. Panic flooded through him. Where was -?

Before the thought was even complete, Tom knew the answer. He lifted his head, as well as he could, to squint downwards, and flopped back again with a sigh of relief. Barard was there, curled against his side, his head on Tom’s right shoulder. They were covered by a light sheet, but Tom could see it moulded over Barard’s leg that was thrown across his own. He closed his eyes again, feeling his tears flow and unable to wipe them away. The deadness in his right arm was explained, anyway: Barard was lying across it, twitching a little in his sleep and breathing quietly. 

‘Barard,’ he whispered, and Barard burrowed against him, freeing Tom’s forearm. Tom wrapped the arm around Barard, feeling a numb tingling as his fingers came back to life. He stroked Barard’s back - eliciting a soft mutter of words that he could not make out - and bent to kiss the shaved head. Someone had tidied up Tom’s earlier handiwork, and Barard was as bald as a slave in the market. The pungent smell was no doubt the unguent that was smeared liberally over the sores on Barard’s scalp; it mingled with the scent of soap, a great improvement on the prison stench. 

Tom lay quietly, not sure if it was still the same day or not, but at least his presence in the palace boded well, and if he was here, then surely Catos was safe. That was about as much coherent thought as he could manage. His hand stroked lazily over Barard’s shoulder and arm, and he struggled to keep his eyes open.

Barard stirred under the caress. His hand slid across Tom’s belly and tightened on his hip. ‘Tom?’

Tom lay still, his breathing deep and even; in his drugged state, it was an effort to answer. ‘Yes, love?’

‘This _is_ a dream, isn’t it?’ Barard’s voice was as husky as before.

‘No, Bar’d,’ Tom mumbled. ‘This’s real.’ 

Barard sighed and raised his head to look at Tom. ‘But you’d say that, wouldn’t you? In my dream?’

This was too difficult for Tom in his befuddled state. He blinked at Barard. ‘’s there any way I c’n answer that?’ he asked, feeling drugged and stupid.

Barard laid his head back down onto Tom’s shoulder, and his hand wandered over Tom’s body, mapping out the contours. He touched the bandages and stilled. ‘You’re hurt. The young man showed me the arrow.’

‘I’ll heal.’ He sighed as his eyes closed despite his best efforts. Young man? Did Barard mean Catos? He knew there was something... something important he had wanted to say. Ah, yes, that was it. ‘I love you,’ he mumbled as he drifted back into darkness.

When he next awoke, it was to find Barard still enfolded in his arm and deeply asleep. The medicine Tom had been given had worn off - the sharp pain in his shoulder and the clearness of his mind were evidence to that - but the pain was nothing compared with the intensity of the joy that flooded through him. _Barard!_ Barard in his arms - well, arm. He wanted to shout, sing, leap around, but that would wake Barard. Instead he kissed the shaved head and blinked back tears once more. He was so wrapped up in his contemplation of Barard that he only realised they were not alone when his face was wiped. He smiled up, glad that he had been right: Catos was safe. 

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Catos quietly. 

‘Good,’ said Tom, and gave a huff of laughter at the inadequacy of his reply. ‘Is it still today? How did I get here?’

Catos understood what he meant. ‘Yes, it’s still today, though it’ll be getting dark soon.’ He settled down on the bed, one leg tucked under him so he could face Tom. ‘The fighting we heard - or maybe you didn’t? - that was the city guards who’d joined Tarlos. Dalmos was with them. Tarlos sent them to secure the prison, to make sure it wasn’t overrun by a mob out to free everyone regardless. All that part of the city is under Tarlos’s command now. You were brought back here as soon as possible, and the arrow removed. I knew not to try up at the prison. You bled _everywhere,_ but the only worry now is if you take a fever. Your arm’s fine.’ He indicated the bandage. ‘It’s just bound up like that to stop you disturbing the wound as you sleep.’

‘What’s happening - in the city?’

‘We hold all the city, apart from the Citadel, and Daros’s army to the south has been defeated. Sûlos used the river as a defence; Daros thought the threat would come from the south, you see, so his men were on the far side of the river ready to be mobilised quickly. There’s still a battle going on to the east - you can see the dust rising if you go up the hill - and the hope is the third army won’t appear any time soon. Tarlos thinks they’ll send out scouts first, not having any news from here. He said you stopped Daros’s order recalling them to the city’s defence.’ Catos beamed at Tom, white teeth against dark skin, but when Tom asked after Faros, the youngster’s smile faded away, and his brows came together in a deep frown. The anxiety in his voice was echoed by the way he hunched in on himself.

‘I don’t know.’ Catos stared miserably down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap. ‘I’ve not seen him since he left us this morning. There’s been no news of him.’

Tom didn’t know what to say. “He’ll be all right” sounded trite: in the midst of a civil war, there was no way of knowing he would be. ‘He’s not in the city, then?’ he asked, and Catos looked up with a shake of his head.

‘I don’t think so. Tarlos hasn’t seen him. He came to find out how you fared not long ago, and couldn’t give me any news.’ Catos’s mouth twitched a little. ‘He was rather... erm... taken aback to find you curled up together, but the physician insisted it was best for both of you. He reminded Tarlos of what he’d said about the swans, and said I was quite right to have brought Barard to you.’

‘You brought... Thank you! How is he?’

Catos bit his lip. ‘I don’t know. I went to Sulos’s rooms, after I’d made sure you weren’t going to... going to die, and he was out of bed. He seemed dazed, pacing back and forth: short, dragging steps, and not very far before he turned, just as if he still wore chains. When he noticed me, he crouched down on the floor. It was... it was like a dog that cowers to avoid a beating.’ Catos looked visibly upset, and Tom swallowed at the image the words conjured. 

‘Balios was with him; he was sitting down on the floor - he said that made Barard less anxious. Barard hadn’t offered Balios any violence, so I crouched down next to him, and held out my hands like this.’ Catos demonstrated, holding his hands out with the light palms uppermost. ‘He has a little Southron, because he asked me what I wanted, but when I answered, he started shaking. I don’t know what he thought I was saying, so I said, _“I frind Tolm. I take you Tolm.”_ He didn’t move, just stared at me, so I stood up and held out my hand and said _“I take you Tolm. I take you Tolm. Come.”_ Was that right?’

Tom nodded. ‘That’s very good, Catos.’

Catos smiled at the praise. He drew his other leg up to hug it to himself, and looked down at Barard. ‘He was very wary, but I got him to stand up. I walked towards the door and kept telling him I was taking him to you. He took a few steps, and then just froze. I had to persuade him to move any further, and he staggered as though drunk. I caught him as he fell, and picked him up - he’s so light! - and just kept saying your name. He started struggling as soon as he saw you, but when I tried to set him on his feet, he just crumpled up. That’s when the physician said he should be allowed in the bed with you. He clung to you as though you were a rock in a world of quicksand.’ Catos rubbed the heel of his palm over his eyes, and Tom wished he had a spare arm to hug him, but the bandages prevented that. The ache in his shoulder was getting worse: a throbbing that radiated out from the wound. It provided an unwelcome counterpoint to the sharp pain that carried with it the memory of the arrow’s entry.

He didn’t want to remember that moment. Only Catos’s action had averted the disaster that would have meant Barard had been rescued only to be confronted with the news of Tom’s death. ‘You saved my life,’ he said quietly, and Catos ducked his head self-consciously.

‘They might not have killed you.’

‘In the circumstances? Yes, I think they would have.’ 

Catos lifted his head, and now tears were plain to see, gathered along his lower lids. ‘Do you think they’ve killed Faros? Do you think he’s dead?’ He didn’t wait for an answer; he pushed off from the bed with a sob and ran from the room. The door slammed behind him, and Barard jerked at the sound. His eyes flew open, wide and fearful, and Tom could feel his trembling.

‘Barard.’ 

That was all it needed, just his name, just spoken quietly, and Barard relaxed against him with a sigh. ‘Tom.’

Well, that was good. Barard seemed prepared to accept he was real, but Tom was uncertain about what to do or say. He kissed the top of Barard’s head again, unable to reach anywhere else, and Barard buried his face against the bandages over Tom’s chest. There was something childlike in the action. With the lack of hair, Tom was reminded of a newborn seeking the warmth and comfort of a mother’s breast. Was it like a rebirth for Barard? He had been denied light and fellowship for so long; would he have to reach out like a babe trying to make sense of the world around him? Tom had no idea, and didn’t know how to start asking these questions, or even whether he should. Maybe just quietly being there was all that mattered. 

As before, Barard’s hand stroked over Tom’s hip and thigh, exploring his skin. He fingered the cloth that wound around Tom’s loins, slowly tracing the twisted folds, maybe satisfying himself that it wasn’t another bandage. Still in silence, he traced the outline of Tom’s arm beneath the dressing. He seemed to understand where the wound was, and his fingers trailed lightly over the padding, coming to rest over Tom’s chest, over his heart. He lifted his head, pushing up a little to look at Tom in the growing twilight.

‘Always you are with me,’ he whispered. ‘When the madness takes me, or I’m deep in despair, you are here with me, bringing me home to myself.’ The hoarse quality had not gone from his voice, and Tom wondered if it was from disuse or from all the shouting Barard had done. He wished that he could dispense with the bandage and free his other arm. He cupped the back of Barard’s head and held his gaze.

‘And now I’m here to take you home.’

Barard’s lips quirked into a half smile. ‘That’s one way to look at it. Do you think death is like that? Will you be with me?’

‘Barard, you’re safe. This isn’t the prison. Do you understand? This isn’t... isn’t some madness. I'm really here.’

There was a knock on the door, and instantly Barard disappeared into blankness, his eyes dulled, as though he had withdrawn somewhere. He curled against Tom, trembling violently. Tom sighed and called out an invitation to enter, although he wanted to tell whoever it was to piss off. He was glad he hadn’t when Catos entered, his eyelids looking red and swollen. He was followed by servants bringing hot water, food for supper, and a low table. 

The servants left, but Catos made himself busy, lighting candles and straightening the bedding over them. ‘He’s still asleep, then?’ he asked.

Tom squinted down and shook his head.

‘That’s good. He can eat some supper. May I stay with you? I don’t want to eat in the main hall.’

Tom hesitated. Much as he wanted to give Catos his company when the youngster was so clearly upset about Faros’s disappearance, his answer must be based on what was best for Barard. But was being alone with Tom best for Barard? Would Catos’s presence actually help draw Barard from his insular imaginary world that contained himself and Tom? Catos bit his lip. ‘It’s all right. I’ll go. I just -’

‘No, stay, Catos.’ He switched to Westron, stroking down Barard's arm as he did so. ‘Barard, this is a friend. His name is Catos. The young man who showed you the arrow, do you remember? He’s brought us some supper. He’s going to help me get up, and then I’m going to help you. Do you understand?’ 

Barard said nothing, just curled in tighter as though he would deny the world beyond Tom. With difficulty, Tom extricated his arm, and Catos jumped to help him as he realised Tom was trying to raise himself up. The youngster grabbed a shift and helped Tom into it, but he refused Tom’s suggestion that the bandage be removed first, so one sleeve of the garment dangled uselessly. Left to himself, Barard curled up on his side in a tight ball; Tom sat beside him and stroked his cheek. ‘Will you get up and eat?’ he asked gently, and when he received no response, ‘Barard, get up. We’re going to eat now.’

Barard responded to the instruction, as he hadn’t to the question, and Tom helped him to his feet. Catos fussed around them, doing a good impression of a mother hen, flustered and anxious about her newly-hatched chicks. He set a soft down-filled cushion out on the floor for Barard to sit on, but he himself sat cross-legged on the carpet, and Tom did the same.

There was a colourful array of dishes. Clearly the cooks had not let the small matter of a civil war distract them from the serious business of preparing food. Tom indicated the spread before them. ‘What would you like, Barard?’ he asked. Barard looked at him blankly, as though he didn’t understand the question, and dropped his gaze down to where his hands twisted together nervously in his lap. Tom selected some pieces of chicken to hand feed to him, and was relieved when Barard ate them. All his efforts to get Barard to choose something met with the same blank look, but Barard accepted all he was given - sometimes only nibbling at it - but he ate enough that Tom was encouraged. Through most of the meal, Tom spoke quietly to Barard, telling him news from the Shire, and that their brothers awaited them in Minas Tirith, but it was a one-way conversation. Occasionally Tom said a few words to Catos, apologising for shutting him out, and telling him what he was talking about. Each time, Barard looked between Tom and Catos with a puzzled frown on his face, but it wasn’t until Tom started questioning Catos about the latest news in the city that Barard became visibly distressed. He balled up around his knees and started rocking back and forth, moaning in time with his body’s movements. 

Tom swore and tore off his shift. He pulled at the bandage. ‘The Eye take me, Catos! Get this fucking bandage off me now!’ Catos didn’t repeat his earlier refusal; he jumped up and hastily unwound the dressing. He was still trying to unwrap it, when Tom freed his arm and did as he wished: cradled Barard close. He pulled Barard back against his body, ignoring the pain that seared through his shoulder.

‘Barard, Barard. Hush, love, hush. What is it? I’m here. Your Tom’s here.’

Barard half-turned into his embrace, and clung to him sobbing. ‘Don’t go, Tom, don’t go. I can’t bear it.’ Tom’s eyes filled with tears. What had Barard said earlier? _Don’t turn into one of them._ Bollocks! It was his speaking in Southron that was the problem. 

‘Listen to me, Barard. Catos is a friend, but he speaks no Westron. I talk to him in his language because he understands no other. I am still Tom, your Tom.’

Barard stilled against him, and this time, when he laid his palm over Tom’s heart, Tom could hold it there with his own hand. Slowly Barard raised his head to search Tom’s face, and Tom bent his head to kiss Barard on the lips. It was a chaste kiss, prompted by feelings of protection, not desire. He couldn’t truthfully say he desired this Barard; this wasn’t his Barard. The pain in his shoulder was nothing to the pain in his heart as he faced the truth: his Barard might be lost forever. He pushed the thought aside and smiled down into green eyes. Barard was in his arms; nothing else really mattered. Not being his Barard in no way meant Tom loved him any the less. 

Catos squatted down beside them. ‘What is it, Tolm? Is he scared of me?’

‘A little, but he seems more scared by me talking to you. Try taking his hand, and saying _“I am your friend.”’_

Catos reached out slowly. Barard’s breathing quickened, but he made no move to resist as brown fingers clasped his white ones. 

‘I - em - your - frind.’ 

‘Friend.’

‘I em your frend,’ Catos corrected himself. He leaned in and kissed Tom on the forehead, then kissed Barard. ‘I em your frend,’ he repeated. Tom smiled at him. It was a very touching gesture.

‘That’s enough, yes?’ said Catos. ‘Like when I try to friend a dog. Not too much at once. I’ll come back at breakfast, if I may.’

‘You’re probably right, but there’s no need to go. Stay here.’ Tom indicated the other bed that stood by the wall. Catos would probably appreciate the company.

‘If you’re sure. I’d like that,’ said Catos, and by his look of relief, Tom knew he’d been right. ‘I’ll take away the dishes and fetch my things, and... and see if there’s any news.’

Tom nodded, but secretly thought there would be none. If Faros were back, he would have come in person, and if there were news, someone would have brought it to them. When Catos returned, carrying his and Tom’s swords, it was clear from his face that nothing had been heard of Faros, but he had other news. 

‘The city’s quiet,’ he said. ‘Banners for the Houses that support Sûlos hang all round the main square, and there’s been no counterattack from the Citadel. Yanos has disengaged from battle, because of poor light, but he holds Daros’s second army at bay, and he’s destroyed their cavalry. We’re well guarded here, but I thought we’d still better be prepared for anything.’ He handed Tom his sword, and laid his own on his pillow. 

Barard was acquiescent as Tom guided him to the bed and climbed in beside him, but he pulled fretfully at his night shift until Tom helped him to remove it. He tucked himself into Tom’s arms with a soft hum of pleasure, and fell asleep almost at once. Catos pulled covers over them, blew out the candles and snuffed the smoking wicks between forefinger and thumb. 

Tom couldn’t sleep, and judging by the occasional sniff he heard, he doubted Catos could, either. He lay in the dark, Barard’s skin warm against his, but his quiet joy at his wish come true was muted by concern for Barard and worry over Faros. Barard’s body was sharp and angular, and the pain in Tom’s shoulder nagged at him, setting his teeth on edge. He fidgeted, trying to get comfortable, but stopped when Barard cried out softly and clutched at him. Instead, Tom stared into the darkness, trying to imagine what it had been like for Barard, then took himself to task for even thinking that being in the dark for a few hours could give him any insight. He was lying on a soft mattress, with his belly full and his friends near. What could he know of Barard’s ordeal?

Catos, now - that was a different matter. Tom knew all too well that empty feeling of not knowing what had happened to a loved one. ‘Catos,’ he whispered into the darkness, but there was no answer. He sighed, and pulled the cover closer around himself and Barard. Hopefully the morning would bring news… 


	12. Chapter 12

Tom finally slipped into an exhausted sleep as the first light of dawn picked out cracks in the closed shutters: thin lines of grey seeping into the darkness of the room. He woke some time later with a start, not knowing what had woken him, but knowing something was wrong. He reached out sleepily, then jerked up into a sitting position, crying out as he did so with the intensity of the pain. He was alone in the bed. 

The lines of light through the shutters had intensified while he slept, and now bars of gold picked out bright strips of pattern on the carpet. The room was dim otherwise, but not so dim that Tom couldn’t see Barard sitting hunched up in one of the sunlit patches. Ignoring the pain, he slithered from the bed and was at Barard’s side in an instant, his good arm around the thin, bare shoulders. 

‘Barard?’ 

Barard held his hands cupped before him, watching the play of light across them as he swayed back and forth. It wasn’t like the rocking of the evening before, but his obvious delight in the changing pattern of light was somehow both childlike and outside of sanity. Tom remembered Tarlos’s description of Barard in the dungeon, how he would sit in a small patch of sunlight that filtered down into his dark prison. He stroked Barard’s cheek. ‘Would you like me to open the shutters and let the light in?’ he asked gently. Barard looked at him blankly, and Tom tried again. ‘Barard, would you like to go out into the garden?’ It was suddenly very important that Barard should see the open sky. 

Barard blinked and looked down at the sunlight he held in his hands, but made no response. 

Tom changed tack. ‘Barard, stand up. I’m going to take you into the garden.’ He pulled Barard to his feet and encouraged him to dress, but Barard’s confusion, and Tom’s painful shoulder, made the simplest of actions a challenge. Catos was still asleep, and Tom had no intention of disturbing him to ask for help. He dressed himself with difficulty, trying not to cry out when the pain tore at him as he struggled single-handed to put on his tunic and fasten the clasps. He had to stand for a moment with his head bowed, while the pain subsided to a more bearable level, and his breathing deepened and slowed back to normal. 

Under his guidance, Barard managed a few shuffling steps before he halted, swaying, a look of panic on his face. He clutched wildly at Tom, and it was several minutes before Tom could persuade him to take another step. When Barard did so, he staggered, just as Catos had described. Tom gave what support he could, hampered by his own weakness. Carrying Barard was not an option - not with his shoulder injury - and he patiently persuaded Barard to take one step, then another. By taking it very slowly, Barard managed to walk without falling, but his odd shuffling gait spoke of manacles burnt like a brand onto his memory. 

Tom was surprised to find guards outside their door, but they just nodded to him and stayed where they were; it seemed they had been placed there for the protection of the House of the White Tree, not for the benefit of two stray hobbits. He led Barard down the dim corridor and pushed open the door into the herb garden. It was not only the closest garden, but also the most Shire-like. Barard ducked his head, screwing up his eyes at the sunlight, and Tom led him as though he were blind to a seat in the shade. It was late enough in the morning for the sun to be above the rooftop, but early enough for there still to be long shadows and for the heat to be comfortable. The raucous and gaudy birds, which had been feeding as they entered, flew up at their approach with a loud clatter of wings. Barard jumped at the sudden noise, but kept his head down and his eyes tightly closed. 

‘It’s only a flock of birds, love. We frightened them.’ Tom gently guided Barard to sit and was relieved to join him. The short walk had left him feeling shaky and drained, and the pain in his shoulder was nearing unbearable. He took a deep, steadying breath and looked around. There were only a few flowers to see, but it was green and restful, even with the chatter drifting from the direction of the kitchens. Many of the plants would be unknown to Barard, but some were to be found in Minas Tirith, and a few even grew in the Shire. Tom plucked a growing shoot of rosemary, crushed it between his fingers to release the scent, and held it under Barard’s nose. Slowly Barard’s head came up, and equally slowly, he smiled. Tom placed the sprig into his hands and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Open your eyes, love.’ 

Barard obeyed, staring at Tom for a moment before looking down at the aromatic leaves; he turned them over in his hands, and smiled again. It was a shy smile, his gaze not quite rising to meet Tom’s. He raised the herb to his face and took a deep breath, closing his eyes once more as he did so. Tom smiled at the look of rapture, but the next moment his delight at Barard’s reaction was torn away, as Barard collapsed against him, shaking and weeping. 

‘Barard. My Barard,’ murmured Tom. ‘Hush, it’s all right. You’re free.’ But it wasn’t all right. Barard’s grief, so suddenly released, spoke deep within Tom, unlocking the months of fear and loss. He tightened his hold on Barard, and his own tears were there before he could stop them, gathering into a flood as Barard clung to him. His raw emotion was a pain as real as that in his shoulder - more so, as his mind ignored the torn muscles and skin to enfold Barard in both arms. He held Barard close and rocked with him in a world of darkness. 

Gradually a calm returned, their shaking and tears lessening together. Tom felt light-headed as he sat cradling Barard in his arms. He kept his eyes closed, denying for the moment what Barard had become. He should have remembered: Barard could always be relied upon to surprise him. Barard shifted within his embrace, and the lightest of kisses brushed Tom’s lips. 

‘You’re bleeding, Tom. You should be in bed.’ 

Tom’s eyes flew open to meet Barard’s worried gaze. He squinted down at his shoulder and found Barard was right. Blood had seeped through his dressing, and was spreading out through the fabric of his tunic in a widening stain that was warm and wet. He stood, swayed, and sat again as his knees buckled. Bollocks! He felt as though he might faint at any moment. Now what was he going to do? Barard was in no state to support him. 

A door slammed, and feet came running. ‘Tolm! Tolm! What in the Pit are you _doing!_ You should be... Oh, fuck!’ 

‘Catos,’ mumbled Tom in relief. There was a roaring in his ears, and he felt cold, so cold. 

He heard a ripping sound. ‘Good. Just hold that there, Barard. Do - you - understand? We have to stop the bleeding.’ 

‘Yes. Me know. You go now. Quick.’ 

There was a confused blur of noise and movement, but no sense of time passing. A searing pain in his shoulder made Tom jerk up with a yell, sweating and shaking. Hands forced him back into recumbency. When had he been laid on a bed? 

‘Here, Tolman, drink this.’ A cup was held to his lips, but he pushed it away. His hand was caught and trapped, and fingers entwined with his. The command came again, in gentle Westron this time. 

‘Drink it, Tom.’ 

Someone lifted his head, and he drank, tightening his hold on Barard’s hand as he did so. He was only dimly aware of his wound being bandaged again as the room receded away. When he was conscious of anything at all, it was that his hand was still held. 

‘Barard?’ 

‘I’m here, love.’ 

Tom sighed and slept. His dreams were vivid and confusing, and when he woke, he was not sure whether he had dreamt Barard’s release. He turned his head, and there was Barard, sitting at his side, his hand still clasping Tom’s; he looked tired, his eyes unfocused, but Tom knew now that he could be drawn from his blankness. He tightened his fingers around Barard’s hand, and Barard blinked and turned his eyes to study Tom’s face. Tom lay quiet, letting him take his time, and it was Barard who broke the silence. 

‘You’re such a pillock, do you know that? The healer was furious with you. I don’t know what he called you, but it sounded like it was worth learning. Is this... is this a good time to say I’m sorry?’ 

‘Sorry?’ 

‘For being so stupid.’ 

‘Stupid?’ 

Barard stroked his face. ‘I didn’t really believe it was happening when I was imprisoned, but it was you I worried about. I knew you’d be distraught, and I couldn’t bear that it was my fault.’ His eyes filled with tears, and his voice rose in pitch. ‘I’m so sorry, Tom. So sorry.’ 

‘Oh love, come here.’ Tom tugged at his hand, and Barard lay down beside him, his head against Tom’s sound shoulder. 

‘Forgive me.’ 

Tom’s tears were back, and he bit his lip, feeling his chin tremble as he tried to find his voice. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I’ve been so worried about you. I still am. Such a terrible thing... alone, scared, chained, beaten. How did you endure it?’ 

Barard lifted his head. ‘I... I can’t talk about it. It’s... it’s hard enough believing this is real, without... without... This _is_ real, isn’t it? You look different - I mean, that’s a good thing, because when I... when I imagined you, I saw you as you were. I didn’t see you injured, or so brown, and your hair’s different now, cut straight like that. You... you talk Southron as though you were born to it.’ 

‘That worries you?’ 

‘It scared me. The young man - Catos? - he's been very kind to me. I didn’t know they could be kind. Those who guarded me were never kind, and they never talked _to_ me. It was a... a relief to be beaten, to feel that I _existed.’_ The trembling of Barard’s body increased, and the pitch of his voice rose again as he spoke of being beaten. Tom soothed him with his hand, and turned him away from memories that would need time for him to face. 

‘Catos will be pleased you called him a young man. He’s a boy, really, but he desperately wants to be considered a man. And you’re right: he is kind.’ 

‘And sad.’ 

‘His guardian, Faros, is missing in the fighting. Catos adores him. Faros is a good friend. He was the man who rescued you from the dungeon.’

‘I can’t remember. Not really. I mean... I mean, I _do_ remember, but not details. Not what he looks like.’

They lay quietly together for a while, not talking, and then Barard lifted his head again. ‘Where are we, Tom?’ He smiled, not waiting for an answer. ‘Tom-m. That’s a lovely sound. _Tom.’_

‘We’re still in Hafar, but outside the Citadel. We’re in the palace of the new king; at least, he’s most likely to be.’

‘Is that what the fighting’s about?’ Barard’s trembling had returned, and Tom hastened to reassure him. 

‘Daros is besieged in the Citadel. You’re safe, my love.’ It wasn’t strictly true. There was a whole army that was possibly still unaccounted for, but there was no need for Barard to know that yet. 

Barard sighed and relaxed. ‘Say that again,’ he pleaded. 

‘Daros is -’ 

‘No, not that.’ 

‘You’re -’ But Barard shook his head. Tom smiled at him. ‘My love.’ 

‘Yes.’ The word was hardly more than an exhalation of sound, a soft whisper. 

‘My. Love. Did you ever fear you weren’t?’ He regretted asking as soon as he’d spoken. Barard’s expression became a blank mask again; all light had gone from his eyes. Tom silently cursed the bandages that once more prevented him from enfolding Barard in his arms. ‘My love, always my love, never forgotten. My Barard.’ He tried to push himself up, and his breath caught on the pain. 

The sharp gasp seemed to rouse Barard more than Tom’s words had done. ‘What do you think you’re doing!’ he cried. ‘Lie still! You’ll start bleeding again. You’ll die if you start bleeding again!’ He looked so distressed that Tom lay back obediently. 

‘Hush, my love. I’ll be good, I promise.’ He gave a snort of laughter. 

‘What’s so funny?’ 

‘I never imagined I’d find you, and I’d be the one who needed taking care of.’ 

Barard thought about this. ‘Not enough care. You should be drinking something. Are you thirsty?’ 

‘I feel like I could drain the Bywater Pool dry.’ 

Barard patted Tom, to remind him to stay put, and pushed himself up to stretch for a jug standing on a table at the bedside. He filled a glass rather clumsily, and held it with two hands, like a small child might who is concentrating hard on not dropping his burden. Tom took it while Barard slipped an arm behind his shoulders and raised him just enough to allow him to drink; he had been serious about how thirsty he felt, and he drained three glassfuls before he was satisfied. Barard had just set the glass aside when there was a soft knock at the door. It was Catos. A worried frown cleared from his face when he saw that Tom was awake, but Barard was right: he did look sad. Tom wondered if it were no news or bad news. 

‘Catos, please, come,’ said Barard in Southron as Catos hesitated in the doorway. ‘Tom is good.’ That brought a smile to Catos’s face, and Tom suspected the smile was not just because he had been pronounced “good”, but also at Barard’s recognition and acceptance of Catos as a friend. 

‘The physician wants to examine you, Tolm,’ said Catos. ‘And you’ve got some visitors later, but the physician first.’ 

‘What’s he saying?’ 

‘The... healer,’ it didn’t seem the right word, the physician seemed more important than that, but it would have to do, ‘wants to look at me.’ 

Barard frowned. ‘As long as he’s not going to hurt you again.’ 

‘What’s he saying?’ 

Tom sighed. This could get tedious. ‘He’s worried that the physician may be going to hurt me again.’ 

‘No, no. It was to stop the bleeding, Tolm. He had to stop it. You’d already lost far too much blood yesterday. He was very worried about you; we were all very worried about you.’ Catos stood back to let the physician into the room. The man looked tired, but he smiled down at Tom. 

‘How are you, little bird? You gave us all a fright.’ 

‘I feel weak, and my shoulder hurts, but not badly - not badly enough for a dose of medicine,’ Tom added hastily. It wasn’t true, but he wanted to stay awake for Barard’s sake. 

‘Hmmm.’ It didn’t sound as though Tom was believed. ‘Well, let’s have a look at you, then.’ Barard sat beside Tom, watching anxiously as the man pulled down Tom’s lower eyelids, pinched the tip of a finger to blanch it - nodding as the colour came back as soon as he released the pressure - and felt for Tom’s pulse. ’Good. You’re very pale, but you’ll do - as long as we don’t have a foolish repetition of this morning. I’ll leave another dose of the physic to dull the pain, in case you change your mind. Tell your friend here that he mustn’t let you out of bed. Go on, tell him.’ 

Tom looked at Barard. ‘He says I’m fine.’ 

Barard nodded and turned to look up at the physician. ‘Me no let him,’ he said, and Tom choked. 

‘Good.’ The man looked back to Tom. ‘Tell him it’s his turn now; I don’t want to frighten him.’ 

With Barard’s sores dressed, the pungent smell returned in full force. Catos jumped up from where he’d been sitting on his own bed as the physician took his leave. ‘Can they have their visitors now?’ he asked. 

The physician turned at the door. ‘After they’ve eaten something, yes, but I don’t want those foreigners doing any hocus-pocus on my patients, and Tolman is _not_ to get out of bed.’ 

Tom pushed himself up in his delight. ‘Foreigners...? Legolas? Hanril?’ 

‘You are to lie down, Tolman! Or you will have _no_ visitors, do I make myself clear?’ Tom flopped back. ‘That’s better.’ The physician smiled. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’ 

Tom had to wait while Catos fetched a tray of food from the kitchen before he could find out more, but it was Faros who was foremost in his mind. ‘What news?’ he asked anxiously. 

‘No news of Faros,’ said Catos as he set the tray down beside them and helped Tom to sit. ‘And... and Tarlos says that’s a good thing. If he were dead in the fighting here, or outside the city, his... his body would have been found by now. Some soldiers are missing, too: the ones who rescued Barard. Tarlos thinks they might be with Faros.’ 

‘Any news of the third army?’

Catos bit his lip, and nodded. ‘They’re advancing on the city. That’s why your Gondorian friends have been brought into the palace. There’s a big cloud of sand rising out in the desert, and occasionally there’s a flash of gold as the sun catches a spear or shield. Sûlos is out there with his army to meet them, and Yanos waits in the east to charge their left flank. Tarlos says they’ll be here in under two hours. I wish you could see all the mûmakil lined up, they’re _huge!’_ He sat on the edge of their bed and looked anxiously at Tom. ‘How are you? It’s a good thing I found you when I did.’ 

‘Thank you, Catos. Again. You’re determined to save my life, aren’t you?’ Tom smiled as Catos ducked his head in embarrassment. His young friend seemed changed - more mature and thoughtful - for all that his usual enthusiasm had been evident as he mentioned the mûmakil. 

‘But how _are_ you?’ 

‘I’m hungry,’ said Tom, eyeing the varied food. Everything was in bite-sized pieces, suitable for eating with fingers alone, but there was plenty of it. He found himself wondering again whether the kitchen servants actually _knew_ there was a war on; it seemed so bizarre to have such a feast when an army was advancing on the city. 

Barard looked at Tom quickly when he spoke, and reached for a small savoury pastry. He held it to Tom’s lips, and Tom took it, letting his tongue fold around Barard’s fingers as he did so. He felt close to tears at Barard’s knowing the Southron for _hungry,_ but Barard just smiled in delight and reached for a second pastry. Tom shook his head. ‘Not unless you eat, as well,’ he said, and then, since Barard seemed to respond best to being told what to do, ’You eat it, love.’ 

As they settled into a pattern of one-for-me-one-for-you, it was clear that Barard was making no attempt to choose what food he offered and ate. Catos must have realised what was happening; he winked at Tom and moved the plates around so that both hobbits got some variety. Tom’s lips twitched in amusement. Things could be so much better, but Barard was _here_ within the confines of his arm, showing his care for Tom, and that was a miracle all in itself. 

When Barard had eaten as much as he could, he curled up against Tom again, one hand fisting into Tom’s shift, and closed his eyes. Tom kissed his head, and blinked back yet more tears. He felt fiercely protective towards Barard. He could have happily sat there for hours, pain or no, to simply gaze at Barard’s sleeping face, but it was not to be. There was a loud knock on the door, causing Barard to react with a violent jerk. His eyes flew open, wide and fearful, and he clutched at Tom, his whole body shaking. Catos jumped up to open the door, no doubt hoping to do so before the knock was repeated. The next moment Barahir and Hanril were in the room, bringing laughter and tears with them, and both talking at once. Legolas followed more sedately, to simply stand quietly to one side. Catos hurriedly cleared away the tray with the remnants of food as Hanril leaned over the bed to hug Barard, exclaiming at his thinness. 

As soon as Barard was released from this enthusiastic greeting, he shrunk in against Tom again, and stared down at his hands that fretted in his lap. He had been passive in Hanril’s arms, but now Tom could feel the panic building, could _feel_ Barard’s withdrawal into himself. He had no need to see Barard’s face to know that the lost look was back. He tightened his hold around Barard’s shoulders, and Barard turned into his embrace, burying his face against Tom’s chest. More loud exclamations and questions followed. Tom closed his eyes, too exhausted to halt the torrent of words. 

‘Quiet!’ The command was in Southron, but so peremptory that not only Hanril obeyed: Barahir also fell silent. Catos stepped between them and the bed. ‘I’m sorry, but you must go. All of you.’ He addressed his words to Hanril, who visibly stiffened with resentment. 

‘Hanril,’ said Tom gently. ‘I’m truly glad to see you, but Barard isn’t ready for this. I’d like to speak with Legolas, but I think the less people in the room, the better for Barard.’ 

Prince Barahir made no difficulty over this. He bowed to Tom. ‘I will take my leave and look forward to seeing you when the _perian_ Barard is feeling stronger - or sooner, if the army that approaches proves victorious. We’ll not leave you here to your fate.’ 

Hanril, however, looked hurt. ‘You are my master, Tom. I will do as you wish, but I had hoped to serve you.’ His eyes betrayed his thoughts, flicking to Catos and back to Tom. 

Tom sighed to himself. He felt exhausted, Barard needed him, and Hanril was jealous. He had often thought unkind thoughts on the aloofness of Elves, but Legolas’s quiet detachment was a relief now. It was not unlike having a tree plant itself in the corner of the room, and Tom had always found trees very restful. He sought for reserves of patience and tact. ‘Thank you, Hanril. Have you been introduced to Lord Catos, of the House of the White Tree?’ He switched to Southron as the surprise in both Barahir’s and Hanril’s eyes confirmed that they had thought Catos a palace servant. ‘Catos, this is Legolas, Prince Barahir of Ithilien, and Hanril, of whom I have spoken.’ He kept his voice low and soothing, hoping to calm Barard and ease the raggedness of his breathing, but it wasn’t helping; Barard was drawing breath too rapidly, his shoulders rising and falling beneath Tom’s arm. 

Catos nodded. ‘I am pleased to meet them, but they must go. I’ll go, as well, since this is a problem, yes?’ He kissed Tom on the forehead. ‘Remember, you are _not_ to get out of bed. I’ll come back later, let you know what’s happening outside the city.’ He bowed stiffly to the Gondorians, and stalked out of the room. 

Barahir could not have understood, but it seemed his thoughts were turning the same way. ‘Come, Hanril,’ he said. ‘Come with me to the city wall; you can tell me what those around us are saying.’ He ushered Hanril out, and Tom sighed in relief as the door closed behind them. 

Legolas made no comment. He sat in the high-backed chair, his hands folded together, and took on the faraway look that characterised an Elf walking in his memories. Time was not an issue; when Tom was free to talk, Legolas would be there. Tom closed his eyes for a moment, feeling sick and drained, but Barard still needed him. ‘Barard,’ he murmured. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Barard’s voice was muffled against Tom’s chest, the pitch climbing towards hysteria. He had curled tightly in on himself, his hands clenched between them. 

‘Hush, my love. It’s all right.’ _Fuck this bandage!_ ‘I wish I could hug you properly, I want my arm free.’ 

That got the desired reaction. Barard uncurled enough to wrap his arms around Tom in a fierce hug. ‘No, no, you mustn’t!’ It was still panic, but to Tom it seemed a healthier, more rational panic - a reaching out, not a drawing in. 

Will you look at me, love?’ 

Barard lifted his head and met Tom’s gaze. Gradually the fear faded from his eyes, and his breathing slowed. He studied Tom, his expression muted, then raised a hand to stroke Tom’s face in a gesture that was achingly familiar. Fingertips brushed across Tom’s lips, and it took no thought on Tom’s part to kiss them. Barard sighed and nestled in against him in a far more natural way. ‘You’re in pain,’ he mumbled against Tom’s chest. ‘You should take some of the healer’s medicine.’ 

‘Then I’ll fall asleep, and I’d rather be awake with my arm around you. I’ve been without you far too long.’ 

‘I think... I think I was asleep. They startled me.’ 

‘I know, love. Go back to sleep, if you like. There’s just Legolas here.’ Tom kissed the top of Barard’s head, tasting a bitterness from the salve that the physician had applied, and sat quietly as Barard gradually slumped more heavily against him. He could not prevent Barard’s head from flopping forward against his chest. 

Legolas stirred. ‘Would it help if I laid him down next to you?’ 

‘No, this is fine.’ It wasn’t just that Tom wanted to keep his arm around Barard. ‘I’d rather not risk startling him again. He was much better earlier, really he was.’ 

‘That is good to know.’ Legolas came to sit on the edge of the bed next to Tom and looked gravely down at him. ‘And how are you?’ 

‘That depends.’ 

‘On what?’ 

‘On how Barard is. I’m so happy to have him here with me, but so... so sad to see him like this.’ Well, that was an understatement, if ever there was one, but Legolas seemed to understand. He nodded and lifted Tom’s chin to look deep into his eyes. 

‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘Your recovery is bound together, I think. What did you wish to talk to me about?’ 

‘Can you help him? Heal him?’ 

‘I’m sorry, Tom; I do not have such skills. I am not as Elrond, or even as the descendants of Elros. I am of the Grey-elves.’ 

‘Oh. I thought all Elves were good at healing.’ 

‘Sadly, no. Elessar may be able to help Barard, but I would put more faith in your love. Círdan once told me that Gandalf and Elrond were amazed at what your father was able to do for Frodo.’ 

Tom tried to keep calm, to stop the telltale signs of the tears he was fighting back, but Legolas wasn’t fooled. 

‘Why does that cause you grief, Tom? Círdan said it was a triumph of love over darkness. I know I have said it before, but you are your father’s son.’ 

‘But he failed,’ Tom whispered. ‘Frodo of the Ring had to leave him; he had to go away to be healed, or so Dada always hoped.’ 

Legolas looked at Tom with compassion. ‘Barard has been damaged, but not as Frodo was; he does not have the Ring-sickness, nor has he walked in the shadow world of the Nazgûl. He needs time and patience, I think.’ He released Tom. ‘Will you take him home to the Shire?’ 

‘Unless he wants otherwise, yes, but he seems unable to make any choice for himself.’ Tom looked down sadly at Barard and kissed the top of his head again. 

‘I suppose he has been stripped of the need to do so. I hesitate to advise you, but do not usurp his choices now. Encourage him to make even small decisions, and do not become overprotective.’ 

Tom took in Barard’s frailness, the prominence of his bones, the light bandages that hid the broken skin at wrists and ankles. Overprotective? Yes, that was very likely. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillow that supported him. Movement of the mattress told him that Legolas had stood. 

‘I will be here, Tom. Get some sleep.’ 

It was easy to obey, and when Tom woke again, it was to the sound of quiet voices. His head had slipped sideways, and he had a crick in his neck. It took him a moment to realise that he no longer held Barard within the curve of his arm. Instead, he was the one being held, his head resting against Barard’s chest. 

‘He won’t take anything.’ Barard’s hoarse voice vibrated beneath Tom’s ear, and Tom lay still, feigning the sleep that had not quite let him go. 

‘That is for him to decide, but for the most part the pain is no more than he can bear.’

Barard shifted slightly. ‘How do you know?’ 

‘I looked into his eyes.’ 

‘As you look into mine?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘And what do mine tell you? Am I mad? I fear it is so.’ 

‘My dear hobbit, you are not mad. Your mind has had to escape from the horror of your captivity, and it will take time for you to realise that this is no longer necessary. Like a hand snatched from the flame, you cannot control your reactions, but you watch and wait, and return to us when you can.’ 

‘Tom calls me back.’ 

‘Yes, and why does that not surprise me? But there is more. It is not just something that you play a passive part in; you are not just waiting for Tom to bring you home to yourself. When he needs you, you are there for him in an instant. We heard how you cared for him this morning, and I think that led Hanril to believe you were stronger than you are. He did not mean to cause you such distress.’ 

‘Will you tell him I’m sorry?’ 

‘I will, but there is no need to worry yourself about it. Can I pass you something to drink?’ 

‘I’ll wait until Tom wakes. I need to relieve myself, truth be told.’ 

Tom raised his head a little. ‘I’m ’wake.’ 

In the end they both took advantage of the chamber pot that stood behind a screen in the corner. Barard needed help getting up, but Tom thought he walked a little better. Tom himself was carried, protesting, by Legolas, but when he was allowed to stand, he almost fainted. He stood swaying as Legolas left him to Barard’s support. With one hand clutching Barard’s shoulder, and the other arm encased in bandages, he relied on Barard to help him aim. If he hadn’t felt so weak, it would have been laughable: Barard was holding his cock after all this time, and he was as limp as a baby. 

When Tom had finished, Legolas carried him back to bed and settled him against the pillows. Barard sat cross-legged beside him and reached for Tom’s hand to link their fingers together. Tom closed his eyes again as the world swam around him, but gradually the sickening sensation abated, and the pounding of his heart eased. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and was disappointed to find that Barard was no longer looking at him. He turned his head to follow Barard’s gaze. Legolas had paused in the act of pouring a drink and was listening intently with his head cocked towards the closed shutters. Slowly he set down the jug he held. 

‘What is it?’ asked Tom. 

‘I can hear shouting.’ 

Tom looked at him with sudden apprehension. He could hear nothing. Had the third army overrun the city? His mind raced. There was the hidden door in Sûlos's rooms... 

Closer, within the palace, came the sound of running feet. The noise sounded nearer and nearer, then stopped abruptly outside their door. Barard’s finger’s tightened painfully against Tom’s hand, but Legolas smiled. ‘It is a friend.’ 

Tom gaped at him. ‘How...?’ 

‘Someone pauses to draw breath, not wishing to burst in and startle Barard.’ Legolas crossed the room and pulled open the door. Catos almost fell through the opening, his eyes bright with excitement. 

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ demanded Tom. 

‘It’s Faros! I had to come and tell you.’ Catos was bubbling over with laughter, almost to the point of incoherence. Tom glanced at Barard, but he was responding to the laughter, his mouth twitching at the corners. 

‘Come here, Catos! Come here and tell me _what_ about Faros. He’s safe?’ It was a fair assumption, given the fact Catos looked as though he might burst with happiness; then and there, the knot of fear that Tom had carried for Faros unravelled.

Catos nodded. ‘Yes, yes!’ He stood over them. ‘He... He’s... Oh, I wish you could have seen it!’ 

‘Catos! Seen what?’ 

Catos took a deep breath. ‘I went out to the city walls with Tarlos. He’s in charge of the city’s defence. There was a long column of soldiers approaching, and more on horseback protecting their flanks.’ His hands sketched the scene in the air. ‘Sûlos had his army drawn up ready outside the walls, and Tarlos said Sûlos was speaking to them, but there’s no _way_ more than a few could have heard him: they were all cheering and yelling, and clashing their spears together.’ Catos paused with an inane grin on his face. 

‘But what of Faros?’ Tom asked impatiently, not seeing where this was leading. 

‘Wait, wait. I’m coming to that. A small company of soldiers rode out from the third army with three lords at their head, and... and they raised a standard. Everyone fell silent except for Tarlos.’ 

Tom sighed in frustration as Catos paused for dramatic effect. _‘What_ did Tarlos do?’ 

‘He said, “Well, fuck me!”’ Catos started laughing at the memory. 

‘Catos!’ Tom was getting annoyed. ‘Are you going to tell me?’ 

Barard tugged Tom’s hand to get his attention. ‘What’s he saying, Tom? I can’t follow him.’ 

‘He’s saying very little of anything at the moment, and I’m going to shake him if he doesn’t get on and tell me what’s so funny!’ Tom switched back to Southron. ‘Catos! Tell me! What was so funny about the standard? 

‘It was... it was Faros’s standard.’ 

‘What!’ 

‘They were riding under the banner of the House of the Sun.’ 

‘No!’ 

‘Yes. It’s true, and that’s not the best bit.’ 

‘Tell me.’ 

‘The lord at their head... it was Faros.’ 

‘Now you are joking!’ 

‘No, I swear. At first I thought it was Yanos, but Tarlos said Yanos wouldn’t sit his horse so badly.’ Catos’s words came tumbling out in his excitement. ‘Sûlos rode to meet them with a guard, and they all dismounted. Faros embraced Sûlos, and the other lords made their obeisance.’ 

Barard laughed. It was a harsh contrast to the laugh Tom remembered, but he didn’t care: Faros was safe, Catos was about to go off like one of the dwarves’ firecrackers, and Barard was laughing - sweet Lady, he was laughing! 

‘I’ve no idea what your friend’s saying, except that it’s something good; he’s talking far too fast. If he doesn’t calm down, I think he’ll burst.’ 

Tom nodded, aware he must have a foolish grin on his face to match the one Catos wore. ‘It seems as though our good friend Faros has delusions of grandeur and has arrived back at the head of an army. The Lady only knows how he pulled that off.’ ‘Really? So you mean they’re not going to fight?’ 

‘Who is Faros, Tom?’ asked Legolas. He had taken a seat while Catos told his tale, and now he leaned forward. 

‘He is the House of the Sun.’ 

Legolas frowned. ‘Is he likely to try to seize the kingship from this Sûlos? If there’s going to be a struggle for power, I think we should take you away from here. I know you’re in no state to travel, but - ’ 

Tom interrupted Legolas. ‘No, Barard has the rights of it. It means there’ll be no battle. Only the Citadel stands against Sûlos now.’ He switched back to Southron, speaking quickly to Catos in the hope that Barard wouldn’t understand. ‘It couldn’t be a trick, could it? The third army’s leaders could be using Faros to get close to Sûlos, maybe to get into the city and free Daros?’ 

‘No, I don’t think so. Anyway, Sûlos sent for Tarlos, and you know what a suspicious bastard he is.’ 

‘Catos! There’s no need to talk like the soldiers!’ 

Catos grinned again. ‘Oh, like you don’t! Tarlos was muttering about dispersing them and not letting them into the city, so be easy: Sûlos has won. I’ve been ordered to change into something more fitting my rank and join them, but I wanted to come and tell you first.’ 

‘Thank you! What are you waiting for? Go and find Faros! Go!’ 

Catos laughed and ran from the room, skidding around the door frame as he went. They could hear his feet racing away down the corridor. 

Barard leaned in and surprised Tom by kissing him on the lips. ‘I’m glad your friend is safe. It’s good to see Catos looking so happy.’ 

Tom tightened his fingers on Barard’s hand, drawing him back to return the kiss. He repeated Barard’s action: a light kiss, not demanding anything. Legolas cleared his throat. ‘I think this might be a good time to take my leave,’ he said as he stood. ‘I’ll see if Hanril can find someone to bring you supper.’ 

‘Will you ask Hanril to bring it?’ Tom looked back to Barard, wordlessly asking for his agreement, and Barard nodded. 

‘He’ll be delighted,’ said Legolas. He bent over the bed to kiss each of them on the brow. ‘Don’t tire yourselves.’ 

As the door closed, Barard raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he just wink?’ he asked incredulously. 

Tom freed his hand to stroke Barard’s bald head. He himself must have looked just as strange when his head had been shaved. ‘Mmm, yes, I think he did. Come here, love.’ 

Barard untangled his legs and tucked himself up against Tom. ‘Tom?’ 

‘Mmmm?’ 

‘Do you know how Father is?’ 

Tom sighed; he’d hoped to avoid this conversation for a few days. Barard was doing so well, but the gains were fragile. ‘When Legolas left Minas Tirith, Pippin was very poorly. Faramir’s with him.’ 

‘I kept thinking about all the pain I’d caused you and... and Father, and all the family.’ Barard rubbed at his eyes with his arm. ‘I kept thinking Father could be dead, and I’d never know. Robin’s dead, isn’t he?’ 

‘Hush, love. Yes, Robin’s dead. When Hanril comes we’ll ask him to send a message straight off to Gondor to let them know we’re safe. Frodo’s there with them.’ 

‘Sometimes, I feared _you_ might be dead.’ The edge of hysteria was back in Barard’s voice. ‘Sometimes I just thought I should give up, but... but you wouldn’t let me.’ 

‘Look at me, love.’ 

Obediently, Barard raised his head, and Tom gazed into his eyes, holding him here, now. Gradually, the wild look faded. His expression softened, and as Tom curled his free hand at Barard’s nape to draw him in, Barard tilted his head a little, his lips parting. Tom completed the movement, intending it to be a comfort kiss, but suddenly Barard’s mouth was wide open and hard against his: an urgent and frantic rhythm that seemed to have nothing to do with love or desire, and everything to do with desperation. Never before had Tom felt _used_ when kissing Barard, but he felt it now. He had to force himself to keep giving, to not break away as he tried to calm Barard’s frenetic movement. Barard clutched wildly at his shoulder, and pain overwhelmed him, engulfed him, left no possibility for coherent thought. He broke into a cold sweat, and his head snapped back as he cried out at the unbearable intensity and _rawness_ of it. 

Only as the pain abated a little did Tom realise he was held in Barard’s arms, that Barard was sobbing his name over and over. His own breath was shallow and erratic, and he struggled for some semblance of control. It took all his effort. He had no strength left to question as Barard held a cup to his lips and begged him to swallow. It was easiest to obey. Not until the pain faded into a fog that clouded his consciousness did he register the bitter taste on his tongue. He tried to fight against it, desperate to reassure Barard and worried that they were alone, but he might as well have tried to stop a mist rolling in from the river. He lost himself in a world of dark dreams, where he searched for Barard down endless corridors.

Tom emerged once again from confused dreams into confused reality. How long had he slept? Barard? What of Barard? He groaned aloud at the memory of his pain and Barard’s panic. 

‘Tom?’ 

Tom blinked his eyes open. It was at least still daylight, so maybe the physic had not held him in thrall for very long this time. A familiar face came gradually into focus.

‘Hanril?’ 

‘Yes, it’s me. I’ve been here all night.’ 

‘All night!’ Tom struggled to raise himself. The panic was his now. 

‘Careful, Tom, that’s a bad wound. You have damaged ribs, and -’ 

‘The Eye take the wound! How is it with Barard?’ Tom did not even realise that he had slipped into the language of the Haradrim. 

‘Small Southron, he is beside you. No need to wake him with your noise.’ 

Tom fell back against the pillow and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. The throbbing in his head eased as he relaxed. He turned his head, and the last of the tension left him at the sight of Barard’s sleeping form. 

Hanril slipped an arm behind Tom’s shoulders. ‘Let me help you to sit, then you can look at him while you drink something. The physician said you should drink plenty when you woke. He said your body will crave fluid after the loss of blood.’ 

Tom was glad of the help and drank thirstily, his eyes on Barard. His recent memory, of Barard’s face drawn into worry and desperation, gradually faded. There was no doubt that Barard was sleeping peacefully: he lay on his back, no longer curled in on himself as Tom had come to expect. Tom reached out his free hand to caress the starkly defined features, but withdrew it before he touched Barard, not wanting to wake him. He looked up at Hanril as the man handed him a freshly-filled cup, and frowned in puzzlement. ‘You were speaking in Southron,’ he said. He had not realised before that Hanril spoke it with an accent, but the overtones of Westron were clear to hear. 

‘Only because you did,’ Hanril answered. 

‘Oh.’ Tom looked more closely at Hanril, who looked tired and rumpled. What had he said? _“I’ve been here all night.”_ ‘Have you slept?’ 

‘Dozed in the chair. Your young friend offered me the bed, but I was afraid I’d sleep too soundly.’ 

‘What happened, Hanril?’ 

Hanril turned the question back on Tom. ‘What happened after Legolas left you? I knocked softly and entered as I’d been told, and...’ Hanril hesitated, and Tom raised his eyebrows. 

‘And?’ 

‘I should have remembered how you were with Barard when he was in the Houses of Healing. I should have remembered that Halflings do not react as men. When I came into the room and saw Barard rocking you in his arms and keening over you, I thought you were dead. You appeared... lifeless.’ Hanril looked sick at the memory. 

‘Barard dosed me with whatever they use here for pain. It’s very potent.’ 

‘So it seems. Barard was not in a state to explain; all he did was cry, “I hurt him! I hurt him!”’ 

‘It was an accident.’ Tom touched his fingers to his shoulder at the memory of it. 

‘Of course, but I could get nothing else from him, and I was worried for the both of you. Your pulse was very slow. I fetched the healer. I thought he might not be interested in Halflings, but he came at the run. He was very gentle with Barard: showed him the empty cup and asked if you had drunk it. He assured us both that you were in no danger and prepared a sleeping draught for Barard.’ 

‘He took it?’ 

‘He refused, to start with, but the healer suggested that I tell him it would allow him to sleep while you slept, so he would be the stronger to help you when you woke.’ 

Tom looked back at Barard. He was disappointed that the peace wasn’t natural, but glad that Barard had been given this respite. ‘It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. I was pathetic. If I hadn’t made so much fuss -’ 

Hanril interrupted him. ‘Do you know how _bad_ your injury is? The healer told Barard he’d done the right thing.’ 

‘But if I hadn’t -’ 

‘Stop it, Tom! It’s not your fault, either. You’ve got two shattered ribs below your collar bone, and a lot of other damage besides. You’re lucky the arrow didn’t go on to shatter your shoulder-blade or pierce a lung. The healer was very pleased you were getting a good sleep. He said you’re very stubborn.’ Hanril smiled down at Tom. ‘I told him stubborn was your middle name.’ 

Tom rolled his eyes and changed the subject. ‘You said Lord Catos was here?’ 

‘He came in late last night, might even have been early this morning. I thought he was a slave when I first met him, but he’s a very imposing young man in full ceremonial costume.’ 

‘I wish I could have seen him.’ 

‘He’ll be back.’ 

Tom nodded, but he doubted Catos would be dressed in his finest clothes. He was right: when Catos did appear, it was in slaves’ garb again. Tom fingered the cotton and asked the question with his eyebrows. 

‘I’m helping the physician,’ Catos said with his mouth full. He had brought breakfast enough for all four of them, and sat on the edge of the bed, eating. ‘It’s easier like this.’ 

‘Are there many hurt?’ 

‘Enough, but all agree it could easily have been worse. They’re calling Faros “The Peacemaker”. He’s already tired of telling his story, but he said to tell you he hopes to be along to see you later today. It depends on his duties, and on how Barard is. Aren’t you going to eat anything?’ 

Tom glanced down at Barard. He showed no sign of waking, and Tom pushed the food away. ‘I’ll wait. Tell me Faros’s tale.’ 

‘When he left us - you know, after Barard’s rescue - he sought out the men who’d gone to the Citadel with him. Officially, they were still under his command, but he didn’t want to order them, not with the risks so high. They thought he was mad.’ Catos shifted, settling comfortably into his story, and his smile widened. ‘Their captain told me they decided it was inspired madness. They all went with him. Faros borrowed Yanos’s clothes, but his hair was a problem: too short to dress properly, though one of the soldiers braided it into lots of fine plaits, instead. Another fetched a banner of the House of the Sun from the market square. They rode north, and were met by a large scouting party from the third army in the late afternoon.’ 

‘What happened?’ Tom couldn’t imagine how Faros had convinced them to capitulate. 

‘Faros tells it very baldly, but I’ve spoken to some of those who were with him. They seem to have forgotten he was ever a slave; it’s all “Lord Faros this” and “Lord Faros that”. He refused to speak to any but the commander, except to say he came from the king.’ Catos took more food, and Tom waited impatiently for him to continue; if Barard awoke, then all storytelling could go hang. Catos swallowed and licked his fingers with maddening deliberation before he continued. ‘Faros soon found out that no signals had come from Hafar. Apparently, the army had been expecting orders to march north and cross the Harnen. Two lords met with Faros in private. They feted him, since he claimed to come from the king, but looked sideways at him for his short hair. They wanted to know what Daros commanded.’ 

‘What did Faros say?’ 

‘He said he didn’t know. The lords started muttering together, so Faros asked them if they really thought the Sun owed allegiance to Daros. He told them he came from the true king, Sûlos. I wish I could have been there to see their reaction. One of the lords demanded to see his right shoulder.’ 

‘His brand? Did he refuse?’ 

Catos shook his head. He reached for more food, and when he spoke it was with his mouth full again. ‘He showed them, and asked how else they thought he had survived. He told them Daros was trapped within his citadel, his other armies defeated, and that Sûlos had been welcomed by the people of Hafar as their rightful king.’ 

Tom thought about what Catos was saying. ‘But Faros didn’t know that Yanos was victorious.’ 

‘It was a bluff,’ said Catos happily. ‘No news from Hafar made it very believable, thanks to you. It would have been harder to convince them that Daros was a lost cause if they’d received orders from him. As it was, they questioned Faros closely, but they’d met Sûlos and seemed inclined to like him. Faros gave them a gold coin with Sûlos's head on it, and told them Sûlos would honour the debts that Daros had failed to pay.’ He swallowed and reached for a drink. ‘Apparently, the men were near mutiny: no pay, no leave and poor rations. I met the lords last night; they told me. They considered the planned invasion of Gondor to be ill-judged, and they didn’t think it a coincidence that they had both, at some time, openly criticised Daros for his policies.’ 

‘Did Faros know that?’ Tom was still trying to work out how Faros had ever imagined his scheme could work; the fact that he had succeeded made Tom think his own understanding of Hafar politics must be deficient. 

‘He knew they’d been critical, these things don’t remain secret, but he had no idea Daros was planning a northern invasion.’ 

‘Well, it seems he persuaded them.’ 

‘Bravery is greatly honoured and admired,’ said Catos with pride, and Tom had no doubt who was Faros’s greatest admirer in this. ‘They’d had enough of Daros, but I don’t think they were fully convinced until they saw the army arrayed against them. Their scouts reported Yanos waiting on their flank, and Faros says they were impressed by the mûmakil. They put themselves under the protection of the House of the Sun, and swore allegiance to Sûlos.’ 

‘And the rest you saw.’ Tom smiled, happy for Catos, despite his worry over Barard.

‘Saw, yes, but didn’t hear. Sûlos took his time returning Faros’s embrace - did I tell you? - but that was because Faros was explaining himself. Sûlos told me later that Faros had been very free with his treasury.’ 

‘But Tarlos told Sûlos to be prepared to pay the armies!’ protested Tom. 

‘Don’t look so worried; he was laughing when he said it.’ 

Tom would have asked more, but Barard stirred and mumbled his name. Catos stood, no doubt recognising that Tom’s attention was elsewhere. He dusted crumbs from his tunic. ‘Sûlos says to tell you that he’s also looking forward to seeing you, when he’s permitted.’ 

That diverted Tom’s attention for a moment. ‘Permitted? He’s the king!’ 

‘He’s not crowned yet, and anyway, he has a healthy respect for the physician.’ Catos kissed Tom on the forehead, then straightened and bowed to Hanril. ‘Thank you for staying with the _Harffings,_ ’ he said rather stiffly. Tom suspected that he’d yet to forgive Hanril for causing Barard distress. 

Barard moved restlessly, reaching out. ‘Tom?’ he said more clearly, and Tom shifted awkwardly to lie beside him and part cover him with his body. Still half asleep, Barard wrapped his arms and one leg around Tom, and gave a small, contented sigh. Tom nuzzled against his cheek, giving some warning of what was to come, then enveloped Barard’s mouth with his own. Barard responded sleepily to the slow rhythm, and his hands joined in the gentle communion, sweeping over Tom’s back. As Tom withdrew from the kiss, Barard gave a small whimper of protest; eyes still closed, he raised his head, seeking the lost contact with Tom. That small action brought memories crowding in, and Tom’s eyes blurred again. It seemed to him that he had spent the time since Barard’s rescue on the edge of tears. He had no care that Hanril was there, and possibly Catos; he had conveyed more to Barard in that kiss than he could easily have said in words, and far more quickly. _See, I’m here. I’m fine. I love you, so much. Don’t worry about hurting me. Don’t be scared to kiss me. Kissing is good._

Barard’s hand went unerringly to the back of Tom’s head. The pressure was light - _please, more_ \- and as Tom responded, he felt Barard’s lips smile beneath his in sleepy warmth. They kissed and parted, settling together, and Tom couldn’t believe how normal it felt.

Hanril gave an apologetic cough. ‘I’m sorry, little masters; I’d love to let you sleep some more, but neither of you ate any supper, and breakfast is here.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ mumbled Barard, but Hanril was having none of it.

‘You look half-starved, Barard, and Tom needs to eat. After the healer has been, you can sleep again, if you wish.’

Barard did wish, and he was deeply asleep when Faros visited later that morning; he didn’t stir as Catos helped Tom to sit up against a support of pillows. Faros looked in need of a good sleep himself, but he just shrugged when Tom told him he looked exhausted. 

Catos was more forthcoming. ‘Sûlos has made him a Justice of the Court _and_ given him command of the third army.’ He look at Faros with evident pride, and possibly a hint of mischief at Faros’s evident discomfiture.

‘Hardly “command”,’ Faros corrected Catos, his dry tone dismissive of the honour. ‘I have several lords to advise me; I simply do as they say.’ He leaned forward to look at Tom. ‘But what I want to know is how you are. How is your Barard?’ 

Tom looked down at Barard as he twitched in his dreams; he kept a hold on one of his hands, wanting always to keep some contact with him. 

‘How is he?’ repeated Faros. 

‘I... I don’t really know,’ admitted Tom reluctantly. ‘Sometimes, he’s so real and lucid, and _here,_ and then he’s gone again.’ 

‘What does he say about his captivity?’ 

‘We don’t talk about it.’ Tom blink away tears again. ‘He doesn’t want to, and I can’t bear it when he... he...’ _When he curls whimpering into a ball, trapped in the prison of his mind._ Tom couldn’t even bring himself to say it. He stroked the back of Barard’s hand with his thumb to calm himself. ‘I... I can’t ask him.’ He looked up at Faros and saw only understanding. 

‘You’re afraid the memories are too painful.’ 

Tom nodded, but there was no opportunity to say more. Barard stirred, his fingers tightening around Tom’s. 

‘Tom?’ 

‘I’m here, love.’ 

Barard gave a small sigh and opened his eyes. He studied Tom’s face, as though this was not something to take for granted. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘You are.’ Tom raised the hand he held to press a kiss against the palm, and watched Barard’s face light into a smile. Such a simple thing, a smile, but Tom felt as though a warm glow of happiness had wrapped itself about his heart. The pain in his shoulder eased a little, but whether from the warmth of the smile or a lessening of his tension, Tom couldn’t say. He had already found that it took time to judge Barard’s state of mind at each awakening, but for now the signs were good. 

‘We have some visitors, love. Catos is here, and Faros.’ 

Barard struggled up to sit beside Tom. He accepted the help Catos offered him without question - leaning back against the pillows that Catos arranged for his support and taking a proffered drink - but he eyed Faros warily. Tom hastened to reassure him. 

‘Faros is a good friend. He rescued you from the dungeon. We were worried about him - do you remember? - and Catos came to tell us he was safe.’ Tom inwardly winced. He was talking to Barard as he would to a child. 

Faros inclined his head in greeting at the sound of his name, but made no other movement. Barard’s response was to lean in against Tom and close his eyes, but if the slow, even rise and fall of his shoulders beneath Tom’s arm was anything to go by, he was still relaxed. Tom held him close and worried whether to talk over him in Southron or not. In the end, it seemed the best way to allow Barard to become accustomed to Faros’s presence. 

Interspersed by quiet questions from Tom, Faros gave his own account of his meeting with the third army. Except in minor details, it was as Catos had already described. Tom looked at his friend in exasperation. ‘What were you _thinking?’_ he asked. ‘You could have been killed!’ 

Faros raised his eyebrows. ‘I am not the one who nearly died, my friend, and I was thinking that I would try to prevent more blood being spilt. My lord Sûlos may relish a battle, but I have not been raised to it, and it sickens me.’ 

‘Did you know there was so much dissatisfaction in the third army?’ Tom was still trying to understand how Faros had thought his idea could possibly work. 

‘Tarlos said they’d not been paid, remember?’ 

‘I still can’t believe -’ 

Catos interrupted Tom. ‘I told you. We Haradrim admire bravery.’ 

Faros made a dismissive noise, and Catos turned to him indignantly. ‘Of _course_ you were brave, and that’s partly why they listened. I heard them tell Yanos.’ 

‘Why else did they listen?’ asked Tom with interest. 

‘They were intrigued. Faros had clearly been a slave, but he was dressed in clothes fit for a king.’ Catos laughed at the memory. ‘I saw Yanos roll his eyes when they said that.’ 

Faros looked uncomfortable. ‘He said he didn’t mind - that I took his clothes.’ 

‘Of course he didn’t; anyway, you outrank him.’ 

‘No! I do not! After Sûlos' sons, he’s next in line to the throne.’ 

‘But you’re the head of one of the great Houses, and Yanos is just a younger brother.’ Catos said this with all the satisfaction of knowing the same could be said of himself, once he came of age. 

Barard nudged Tom. ‘What are they arguing about? Something about clothes?’ 

Tom nodded. It seemed he had been right: talking over Barard had allowed him to accept that Faros was no threat. He tried to explain. ‘It started with clothes, but now it’s about rank. I’ve no idea who is right, but Faros has just reminded Catos that neither of them actually owns _anything.’_

‘Why? I don’t understand. Your friends are important lords, aren’t they?’ 

‘Yes, love, but until recently they were slaves.’ 

‘Slaves!’ 

Faros and Catos stopped arguing and stared from Barard to Tom. ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘Why’s he looking like that?’ 

Tom ignored them and stayed in Westron. ‘Yes.’ 

‘But... but you said they befriended you. How did...’ Barard changed tack, ‘Just how long have you been here, Tom, to speak Southron as you do?’ 

Only honesty would do. ‘Nearly nine months.’ 

‘Nine months,’ whispered Barard. ‘How have you lived?’ 

Tom sighed. ‘As a slave.’ 

‘You mean, you pretended to be a slave?’ 

Tom wished for the hundredth time that he could hug Barard properly. ‘No, love. It’s a long story. I was a slave.’ He swore softly under his breath as he recognised the drift into otherness in Barard’s eyes and felt the trembling begin. ‘Stay with me, love,’ he pleaded. 

‘What’s the matter,’ asked Faros, a worried frown dragging his eyebrows together into a thick black line. 

‘He does this,’ said Catos quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. Did we scare him? Was it our arguing?’ 

Tom shook his head. Explanations could wait. ‘Barard,’ he said gently, ‘look at me.’ A small part of him was aware of Catos shooing Faros from the room. Catos himself stayed, there if Tom needed help, but otherwise as unobtrusive as possible, and Tom gave all his attention to Barard. ‘Love,’ more urgent now, ‘look at me!’ With difficulty he brought his fingers up under Barard’s chin to force his head up, but looking into Barard’s eyes was not the same as Barard looking back into his. Barard had disappeared into himself, and Tom gave up. It pained him to see Barard lose himself like this, but Legolas hadn’t seemed to think it a bad thing, just something that in time Barard would no longer need. Tom allowed Barard to curl against him and bury his face, and settled for providing a haven of safety. 

He let his mind wander. Possibly because he was thinking of providing a haven, or possibly because he was looking forward to the moment when they would be sailing home, a song came to mind that had been a great favourite of the crew on his journey to Umbar. It was very similar to songs enjoyed in the inns of the Shire, where the rhyme was sacrificed for innuendo, to roars of laughter. Tom started humming it quietly, but finding that Barard relaxed, he switched to the words. 

_Then up comes a mermaid covered in muck_  
_We took her to the fo’csle and had a good time_  
_Stormy weather boys, stormy weather boys_  
_When the wind blows our barge will sail._  


There was a muffled snort from Barard. ‘I had a... a dream that you came to find me, and sang to me like your father did in the orc-hold. Only _your_ song wasn’t fine and noble; it was a dirty ditty that the soldiers sing in Minas Tirith.’ He lifted his head to look at Tom, and the smile on his face faded. ‘A slave? Oh, Tom!’ 

‘Well, it’s allowed me to learn some tavern songs of Hafar,’ said Tom lightly. ‘I’ll teach them to you, and you can shock Hanril.’ 

‘But a _slave!’_

‘It doesn’t compare, not to what you’ve been through.’ 

Barard’s eyes were overly bright with tears. ‘But I had only myself to blame -’ 

_‘Stop it!’_ Tom softened his voice as Barard flinched. ‘Stop it, love. I told you before, there’s nothing for me to forgive. One day you can tell me what you were doing, but that’s not important. You were just unlucky, or maybe they were looking for an excuse; I don’t know, it doesn’t matter.’ 

Barard looked down. ‘I didn’t really think of it as spying. I mean, all Elessar asked is that I tell him what I saw.’ 

‘Elessar!’ 

Barard glanced at Tom’s face, and bit his lip. With a conscious effort, Tom softened the anger that must be showing in his face. Elessar! King or no, he would be on the receiving end of Tom’s ire when they got back! 

‘He asked me to take note of any movements of soldiers, so when I saw the signals in the hills, I thought I’d take a quick look.’ 

‘A quick look?’ Tom was unable to hide his disbelief. ‘It took Faros the best part of a day to get there!’ 

‘But I was there already. In the hills. They took me to see the carpets being made in one of the villages. I saw the lights at dawn, and went to investigate.’ 

‘The bastards.’ 

‘What? Who?’ 

‘They fucking set you up, I’m sure of it.’ Tom shifted, angry once more. ‘I bet they wanted you to go and look as an excuse to lock you up. Maybe they didn’t realise before you arrived, but I bet someone told them.’ 

‘What? You’re not making sense.’ Barard looked bewildered; he sat up straighter and laid the back of his hand to Tom’s forehead. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ 

‘You might just as well blame your father for naming you so, or the old prophecies.’ 

‘Catos,’ said Barard urgently, ‘go to pheeseeshun. Go now. Tom not well.’ 

Catos jumped up, but Tom stopped him. ‘I’m fine. I’m just explaining badly.’ He took Barard’s hand and recited the prophecy of the Sun in Southron. 

Barard just looked more worried, if that were possible. ‘Catos, why you here? Go!’ 

‘Did you understand _any_ of that?’ asked Tom. 

‘My name was in it.’ 

‘That wasn’t your name; at least, I suppose it was, but it translates as “son of justice.” Listen.’ Tom spoke the words in Westron, ‘“First comes the Son of Justice. The Sun will rise after a long night, and an eagle will fly on the north wind to put out thine enemy’s Eye.”’ He sighed. ‘That really pisses me off. Faros is damn lucky he’s such a good man.’ 

Barard frowned. ‘Why’s he lucky? I still don’t understand.’ 

’I think you were arrested simply because of your name. If Faros wasn’t such a good friend, I might hate him for what was done to you all because of his House’s stupid prophecy.’ 

Barard stroked his face. ‘Don’t be silly, Tom. You’re not looking at this the right way round. A seer sees the future; he - or she - doesn’t _make_ the future. It’s not Faros’s fault, is it? What about the eagle putting out the enemy’s eye? What was that all about?’ 

Tom coughed, embarrassed. Catos had already said, _I told you so._ ‘Erm, I rather think that was me.’ 

‘You put out someone’s eye?’ 

‘Not exactly.’ 

Barard stroked Tom’s face. ‘Tell me, love.’ His face was full of concern, a concern that understood just how bad Tom would feel if he had really done such a thing. 

‘It was a mirror. Used to signal across the desert. I’ve no idea if the prophecy means the mirror was like an eye, or breaking it helped put an end to the Eye, or what.’ Tom glanced at Catos, but his young friend had seated himself in the high-backed chair and was waiting - surprisingly patiently - for Tom to say something he understood. ‘Catos says that’s what people are saying, anyway.’ Tom let his head fall back against his pillow and closed his eyes. He had a headache, and felt exhausted. He could have sworn he’d done no more than close his eyes for a few seconds, but when he opened them with a jerk of his head, it was Hanril who sat dozing in the high-backed chair. 

Barard had eased down the bed just enough for his shoulders to fit more comfortably under the yoke of Tom’s arm, and his head lay against Tom’s shoulder. One arm wrapped across Tom’s chest in a comforting embrace. Tom squinted down at him. He was asleep. 

Tom laid his cheek against the stubble of Barard’s hair and sighed, almost happy. His shoulder pained him, and Barard was far from normal, but - all things considered - there was plenty to be thankful for. He closed his eyes again and drifted back to sleep. 


	13. Chapter 13

Tom and Barard did a lot of sleeping over the following day. Both were easily exhausted, and Tom found that after even the smallest exertion he was breathing as though he’d run a race. He needed help to do the simplest tasks, but that was no bad thing. Legolas was right: Barard was at his best when caring for Tom. It was worth being wounded just for that. 

Their world was bounded by their room, and they had only a small number of visitors, but within those confines, Barard became more confident and less prone to slip into a state of fear or panic. Catos showed him how to soak off Tom’s dressing - stripping with it the damaged flesh that would hamper healing and provide fertile ground for contagion-bred fever - how to salve the wound, and how to bandage Tom effectively.

‘You could leave it off,’ said Tom hopefully, but Barard just raised an eyebrow and kept unrolling the bandage around Tom’s chest. Tom was glad this required Barard to work facing him. As yet, Barard knew nothing of Tom’s branding, and Tom wanted to spare him that knowledge as long as possible. Their conversations were limited to their immediate needs, and Tom baulked at the question to which he most wanted an answer: had Barard been abused in more ways than physical beatings and deprivation? 

Barard himself was frequently silent and seemed content to sit pressed against Tom. They touched and kissed, but not as lovers, not to arouse. ‘I love to sit and hold you,’ murmured Tom as Barard finished with the bandage and settled back beside him. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ Barard turned within the protective circle of Tom’s arm, burrowing closer, and Tom blinked back his tears. 

When Sûlos visited, Tom nearly missed him. With sleeping so much, it was not surprising that he should wake to find the men around them had come or gone, with the occasional welcome presence of an Elf. Hanril and Catos seemed to have some arrangement whereby one or other was always close by, and it was Hanril’s voice interspersed with those of Barard and Sûlos that Tom woke to. He lay quiet, gauging Barard’s mood; Barard was at ease with their small circle of visitors, but Sûlos was unknown to him. 

‘So you work together?’

‘Yes, for years - twenty years.’

Hanril translated the question and the answer, and for Tom it was like hearing an echo of the words. 

‘And you trade between your Shi-er and Gondor?’

‘And Rohan. Tom is very good at negotiating terms.’

‘And what are you good at?’

‘Facts, figures.’

‘Do you mean that you are good with numbers?’

‘Tom says they dance for me, but for him they tangle their feet together and end up in a heap.’

Barard’s words lost something in translation, but Sûlos laughed. ‘The science of numbers has withered under Daros, but I intend to revive the once-famous school. I’ve granted the use of a room in the palace here in the meantime. Maybe you would like to join our men of science when you feel a little stronger.’

‘I... I don’t know, my Lord,’ said Barard.

‘You need make no decision. If you’re interested, simply join them anytime they are there.’

‘You are very kind.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve suffered such unkindness and injustice at the hands of Daros. I’m delighted we were able to free you, and not only for your sake. I owe my life to Tolman, did you know that?’

Tom decided it was time to stir. He had no wish to listen in as they talked about him. He lifted his head. ‘My lord Sûlos, you honour us.’

Sûlos was seated in the large, high-backed chair; he turned at the sound of Tom’s voice and jumped up to help Tom into a sitting position. ‘Tolman, it’s good to see you.’ He smiled down at Tom’s confusion. ‘Once more I’m in your debt. Had the third army arrived a day earlier, I would have been hard-pressed to meet them in battle.’

Tom glanced at Barard, cross-legged at the end of the bed, and back to Sûlos. ‘I would say that the debt is mine.’

‘We will not argue over this, my friend, but I know my opinion on the matter. I’m glad you have your Barard back. The physician says that he’ll allow you up today or tomorrow, providing you don’t try to do too much, and I’d like to invite you to dine at my table when you feel ready. My private baths are at your disposal; Balios will show you.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Tom wasn’t going to even mention dining in company to Barard, but a proper bath sounded like a gift from the Valar. 

‘Is there anything else you have need of?’

Barard reached out and rubbed a thumb against Tom’s sole. ‘Ask him for some oil.’

Tom jumped at the touch. He hadn’t worked out exactly how much Barard understood in Southron. ‘Is there oil for... for Barard to rub my feet?’ Tom didn’t have the word he needed.

Sûlos laughed. ‘Well, that’s an interesting euphemism.’

Tom flushed. ‘It is a skill Barard has. He can ease pain and help healing by... by rubbing my feet.’

Sûlos's mouth twitched, and his thick eyebrows rose. 

‘No. It’s true. My father taught him.’

Hanril had been keeping a respectful silence, but now he nodded. ‘Barard has been kind enough to massage my feet when I have had the headache.’

‘And the headache went?’

‘It eased.’

‘I suspect our good physician will consider it some impish magic, but I’ll tell him of your wish for some oil. If the Citadel falls, as I believe it will soon, I’ll have little time to visit, but don’t think that means you’re not in my thoughts. I’ve seen many strange things since I left my home in the south, but none so strange as _Halflings._ I think you have bewitched us all into loving you.’

‘My lord!’ Tom protested, but Sûlos laughed again, his dark brown eyes warm with affection.

‘I jest, small friend, but the city considers you its lucky charm. _Aquilmos_ they call you now: little eagle. I advise you against going out without a guard; you’re likely to find that you’re mobbed by well-wishers and those hoping to touch you for good luck.’

Tom shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. ‘Why do you think the Citadel will fall soon? Are they running short of food?’

‘I doubt it. However, many of those close to Daros are not there for love or loyalty, but because he gives them the power they crave. I suspect their sycophancy will be wearing thin. I would rather they didn’t kill him, but - ’ Sûlos shrugged at the inevitability of it, ‘- if he doesn’t surrender the Citadel to me soon, I think those around him will tire of their prison, despite its many comforts.’

Sûlos turned out to be right on all counts: the physician did allow Tom up the following day, and by then Daros was dead, and the Citadel had welcomed its new king. The need for a guard to protect the Halflings was also well judged, but Sûlos had not anticipated the need within the palace confines. Such a thought certainly never occurred to Tom as he and Barard followed Balios to the promised bath. The small exertion of walking made Tom feel as though he had run round the barrack square half a dozen times. At least Barard was stepping out a little better at his side, although he had twice stumbled for no good reason. Tom slipped a hand beneath Barard’s elbow, and wondered how much support he would be able to give him. ‘It’s not far,’ he said, partly reassuring himself. ‘We have to cross the entrance hall to gain the west wing; it’s the quickest way.’ Tom’s voice gave away how short of breath he was, and Barard’s quick look of concern made him wish he hadn’t spoken.

As they emerged into the large hall that gave on to the front entrance, Tom halted in amazement. The palace was no longer imbued with the quiet atmosphere of conspiracy and secrecy to which he had become accustomed; in his short absence, the place had become the king’s residence and centre of governance. Guards were in evidence, not only at the front doorway, but also guarding the corridors that led to the private rooms. People hurried across the wide marble floor in a whirl of coloured robes, dodging and weaving past each other to different goals. Tom could make little sense of it, but most people appeared to know where they were going. A scribe was explaining to an agitated family group that any news of the Disappeared could be gained at the Citadel, not the palace, but Tom already knew from Faros that few had been found alive.

Barard pressed in against Tom as they followed Balios across the crowded hall, and Tom kept close behind Balios, letting him clear a way through the press of people. They were partway across before they were noticed. The babble of noise died away, to be replaced by hushed whispers that rippled across the room in a soft susurration of sound, as all eyes gradually turned to them.

‘It’s our little bird, our Aquilmos!’

‘The rumours are true! Look, there are two of them!’

‘That is bar-Ard, whom he sought.’

With frightening speed they were surrounded and separated from Balios. Barard clutched at Tom as sound rushed back - in cries and cheers - and hands reached out to touch them. Tom wrapped his arm securely around Barard, holding him close as the suffocating mass of people pressed in. He could see nothing beyond the crowd. Where was Balios? The guards? His shortness of breath increased with his anxiety, and he was not strong enough to prevent Barard from sliding down into a whimpering heap at his feet. He wanted to drop to his knees beside him, but was frightened of their being trampled. He stood his ground, shielding him as well as he could; he was shaking almost as much as Barard. He could hear the guards shouting and swearing, and Balios trying to fight his way back to them. Someone patted Tom’s shoulder, and he made no effort to hide the pain it caused him; he cried out, and was answered by a roar of anger.

‘The Eye take you! If the _Halflings_ are injured you will answer to me!’ 

There was a definite easing of the press now. Tom knelt on one knee by Barard, feeling physically sick to see him so distressed. He laid his arm across the trembling shoulders and held him close. ‘They mean no harm; we’ll be out of this soon.’ He kissed Barard on the temple, and looked up as Balios reached their side. ‘Take Barard,’ he said urgently, but as Balios tried to obey, Barard fought back in a blind panic; he seemed unaware of Tom’s presence.

‘Here, let me.’ It was Tarlos, his anger scattering the crowd like sheep. He pinned Barard’s arms to his sides and took him from Balios. Barard’s flailing feet made contact with Tarlos’s thighs, but the man held on and strode away. ‘Carry Aquilmos,’ he barked over his shoulder. 

Tom had no intention of being carried; he ran after Tarlos, heedless of where they were going. They passed two guards, and a clash of spears behind them told Tom the way was barred to any who might follow. He doubted it was necessary; surely none would be so foolish as to try the patience of Tarlos when he was angry. There had been fear in the eyes of those who had fallen back at the coming of the king’s cousin. Fleetingly, Tom wondered if they would soon be calling Tarlos “the king’s jackal”, but he pushed the thought aside and hastily opened the door the man had stopped in front of. He held it wide so that Tarlos could carry his burden into the room, but he had no thought of courtesy, and let the door go almost in Balios’s face in his haste to be at Barard’s side. 

Tarlos set Barard down on a low couch, and released him to Tom. 

‘Barard! You’re safe.’

Barard took a great gasping breath like a drowning hobbit suddenly finding his face above water. He clutched Tom, his eyes wide with fear. ‘Don’t let them take me back! Don’t let them!’

Tarlos stepped away from them, hands spread wide in a placating gesture. ‘I’ll send for the physician.’

‘No,’ said Tom quickly, trying to keep his voice under control so that Tarlos would take heed of him, not just think they both needed a healer. ‘Not yet. Give him time. He just needs time.’ He swapped into Westron, gentling his voice. ‘Barard, no one is going to take you anywhere. We’re...’ He looked around. ‘We’re in Sûlos' private rooms.’ His nausea had faded, but seeing Barard like this always brought him close to tears. He’d been unable to prevent himself from tensing as Barard grabbed hold of him - it was something beyond his conscious will, an instinct to protect himself from pain - but it was unnecessary: Barard had spared his wounded shoulder, and Tom did not believe that to be a lucky chance. It was an encouraging sign that Barard was not completely lost within his fear. 

‘What would you have me do?’ asked Tarlos.

‘If you are staying, sit quietly,’ said Tom, rather curtly. He rubbed his hand over Barard’s back. ‘Shhh, shhh, you’re safe. They meant no harm, truly.’ 

Slowly the fear faded from Barard’s face, to be replaced by confusion. He curled against Tom, so childlike that Tom had a sudden memory of a small Barard, the baby of them all, snuggling up in Pippin’s lap to stare at Tom over the top of his thumb; in his other hand, an old worn fragment of blanket was clutched tight. Remembering, Tom rocked Barard and quietly sang - not bawdy ditties this time, but songs of their childhood. He smiled as he remembered his childish annoyance when Barard had overtaken him in height, and had dared to call him a pip-squeak. They’d fought like a pair of barn cats, and been prised apart by Frodo and Faramir. Now he kissed the top of Barard’s head, feeling the harshness of the short stubble of hair against his lips. Barard seemed to have relaxed, but his face was still hidden; Tom was not sure if he was asleep, and sat in silence. He yawned, suddenly very tired, and Barard shifted.

‘Tom?’

‘Yes, love?’

Barard sniffed pointedly. ‘You need a bath.’

Tom choked on a laugh. ‘Will you give me one?’

‘Can I sleep on it?’ 

‘On it, or in it? No, it’s all right, I know what you mean. A sleep would be good if we can find somewhere better than this couch.’ Barard raised his head, nervously chewing at his lip, and Tom hastened to reassure him. ‘Not back through the crowd; I don’t mean that.’

‘Who was that man? He looked angry.’

‘Not angry with you, love. He’s Tarlos, the king’s cousin. He rescued you.’ Tom realised that was ambiguous. ‘From the dungeon,’ he added.

‘I thought Faros -’

‘Faros was the one who carried you from the dungeon, but Tarlos planned and led the rescue.’ 

‘Oh.’

‘He’s here now.’

‘Oh.’ Barard pushed himself up until he could see past Tom’s shoulder. Tarlos bowed his head, but stayed where he was.

‘He looks... he looks like a bird of prey.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t want him as my enemy, but he is a good friend - though it’s best to remember that anything you say to him may be passed to the king.’

‘I’m not making a very good impression on your friends, am I?’

Tom made a dismissive noise. ‘Tarlos understands. He really does.’

Tarlos stood slowly, but moved no closer, no doubt gauging Barard’s reaction. ‘Will you introduce us?’ he asked. ‘If you are going to speak of me.’

‘Barard, this is Tarlos, of the House of the Morning Star, cousin to the king.’ Tarlos bowed, although he could have understood no more than his name. ‘Tarlos, this is Barard. He’s worried about what you think of his... fear.’ 

Barard scrabbled free of Tom’s arm and slid to the floor to bow low. ‘I thank you,’ he said in careful Southron. ‘Tom tell me you...’ He looked at Tom.

‘Rescued.’

‘Rescued me. I sorry I make, err...’ He searched for the word he wanted, but Tarlos waved his apology aside. 

‘Please, don’t worry yourself. You’re not alone in this. There are others who have suffered as you have. Most are worse. The physician marvels at your resilience; you are recovering quicker than I ever expected.’ 

Tom had to translate this. He finished and looked up at Tarlos, seeing only compassion in the man’s face. ‘Is there anywhere we can lie down? Barard tells me I smell, but we both need a rest before a bath.’

‘Of course. Can you walk? There are rooms prepared; I think you’ll like them.’

They could walk, although Tom was shaky on his legs after the exertion of running. He hoped the physician would not get to hear of it. He went slowly, glad when it turned out to be only a short distance. Tarlos threw open a door, and Tom exclaimed in delighted surprise. 

‘Who? How?’ he asked. It was obvious the furniture had been made specially for them. Barard wandered through to an adjoining room while Tom was still trailing his hand over the back of hobbit-sized chairs; his voice called out, the hoarseness slightly muffled, but delight clear to hear. Tom followed to see for himself, and stopped short at the sight that met his eyes. Screens painted with flowers and birds had been set to make the room seem smaller, and windows stood open onto a bright garden. Coloured swathes of a fine material had been hung beneath the ceiling in sweeping curves, reducing the height of the room to more intimate proportions. Tom stared up as the cloth shimmered and fluttered in the light breeze from the window; was it silk? As in the outer sitting room, the furniture had been designed for hobbits, and Tom felt a warm glow of happiness at the sight of Barard lying back on the bed, propped on his elbows. The fine regrowth of his hair was only a distant promise of the richness of red-gold to come, and his cheekbones were still unnaturally gaunt. Dark shadows beneath his eyes bore witness to the nightmares that dragged him screaming and fighting into wakefulness, but somehow he looked less of a waif when he wasn’t dwarfed by the furniture. He smiled at Tom, and shifted his weight so that he could hold out a hand.

Tarlos stood in the doorway. ‘When you’re ready, the baths are two doors down on the opposite side of the passageway. You will find clothes and dressing gowns through there,’ he indicated a door by the bed, ‘and there are bandages and salves in that cupboard.’

Tarlos, thank you. This is lovely.’

‘Thank Faros. It was his idea. If you’ll excuse me, I have much to do for the coronation. It’s our hope that you’ll be able to come.’

‘I’m sorry, Tarlos. That’s not possible. You must see that, after this morning.’

‘Let us wait and see nearer the time, yes? I will leave you to rest, and hope to see you again soon.’ 

Barard stretched out and ran his hands over the sheets with a sigh of pleasure. ‘Silk,’ he said. He held out his arms to Tom again. ‘Come here, love.’ Tom was happy to obey, but he wasn’t at all sure what Barard wanted from him. He still had questions he needed to ask about Barard’s captivity, and he didn’t know where to start without risking the fear returning to dull Barard’s eyes. Without answers, and without some sign from Barard, Tom was unsure about touching him with his old intimacy. The perversion of Bayos was clear in his mind, and his fears of how Barard might have been treated had not been dispelled with his rescue. He settled awkwardly next to Barard, hampered by his bound arm, but preferring the discomfort of lying on his wounded side to having his good arm trapped beneath him. He pulled Barard close, rolling half onto his back to take his weight off his shoulder. Barard came willingly into his embrace, shifting down the bed until his head rested below Tom’s chin. He yawned, wriggled to get more comfortable, and hooked a leg over Tom’s. His breathing deepened, and Tom squinted down at him. He appeared to be asleep already. 

Sleep, for Tom, was elusive. He was here in this beautiful room, with the comfort of Barard’s breath warm against his skin, each exhalation permeating through the light weave of his tunic. He stared up at the silken hangings and thought of Faros. His friend had been abused, but still had a lover, and that was encouraging, but Tom - on an emotional knife edge - found tears obscuring the bright colours as he remembered that Faros had rarely even shared a bed with his lover, and that his love had been lost. He caressed Barard’s head, feeling the roughness of the short regrowth of hair. So close. He had come so close to losing Barard. What did it matter _what_ Barard wanted Tom to be? If he only needed Tom to be a comfort to him like that old blanket of long ago - well, that was fine. It was just... it was just knowing how to talk to Barard without causing him pain or fear; better to say nothing than do that. What was it his da used to say? _Least said, soonest mended,_ that was it. He closed his eyes, resting rather than sleeping, but glad to be lying down. 

When Barard woke, they rose and explored the room more thoroughly. The door Tarlos had indicated led into a dressing room, and all the clothes that hung there were hobbit-sized. There were fine cottons, linens and expensive silks. Barard held out the hem of a dressing gown, so that the richly-coloured material fanned out before them. ‘I think this is yours,’ he said drily, and Tom gave an embarrassed huff of laughter when he saw the eagle embroidered across the back of it. 

‘After the crowd today, I feel as though I need camouflage, not a large sign saying _Aquilmos is here,_ he said.

‘Look at the craftsmanship,’ said Barard, and for a moment he was Barard, trader, of Minas Tirith. ‘This is beautiful work.’ He slipped it off its hanger and threw it around Tom’s shoulders. ‘Mmm, yes, the dark blue suits you.’ He paused, considering, and then pulled it off again, throwing it rather carelessly over a chair back. ‘Let me help you undress and remove your bandages, and you can wear it to the bathroom. The healer said you could have the dressing off just while you take a bath.’

‘You could leave it off,’ said Tom, ever hopeful, but Barard shook his head. 

‘Still no, love. It must be horrid in this heat, but no.’ 

Tom sighed, but it would be good to wash properly without having to keep the bandages dry. He stood patiently while Barard unbuttoned his tunic; the left sleeve had been turned inside to keep it out of Tom’s way, and it slipped easily from his shoulder. He shrugged the garment off his other shoulder and watched as Barard carefully unravelled the bandage, rolling it up as he did so, and reaching behind Tom to pass it from right hand to left and so to the front again. The gauze pad beneath had stuck to the wound, and Barard let it be. 

‘I’ll soak it off when you’re in the bath,’ he said. ‘It’s not how I’ve seen wounds treated before, but it seems to work. I just wish it wasn’t so painful for you when I remove it.’ Each dressing change had stripped away unhealthy tissue, leaving a cleaner wound. Tom had thought he’d hidden the pain it caused him, but it seemed not. 

Barard picked up the dressing gown again and carefully slid the sleeve up Tom’s left arm. Tom expected Barard to reach around him again, but Barard moved behind him instead, talking about the eagle design. ‘I’m glad they think so well -’ he began, and stopped with a sharp intake of breath. Fingers hesitantly touched Tom’s right shoulder, lightly tracing the scar.

‘Tom?’ 

‘I told you,’ said Tom, trying to sound matter-of-fact. ‘I was a slave.’

‘They _branded_ you?’ It was a whisper. The questing fingers shifted to trace the scars running across his back. ‘They _whipped_ you? I’m so sorry.’

Tom could hear the tremor in his voice, feel the shake in the his fingers. He let Barard finish helping him on with the dressing gown before he tried to turn, but Barard caught him around the waist, and bowed his head to lay his forehead against Tom’s shoulder.

This is _not_ your fault. Will you stop apologising.’

‘But _branded!’_

‘I told you, it was nothing to what you went through.’ Tom bit his lip, annoyed with himself at the note of impatience that had crept into his voice. He didn’t want Barard to dwell on this, but getting cross with him for doing so wasn’t going to help. Barard pressed a kiss against the scar, and pulled Tom tighter against himself.

‘I had a dream while I was held prisoner. Well, lots of dreams -sometimes I couldn’t tell what was real - but one dream kept coming to me again and again.’

Tom let himself relax back into Barard’s support. ‘What? What was it?’

‘Somehow I was free and with you, and everything was just as it had always been.’

‘And it’s not?’ _Stupid question._

‘No, it’s not. You’re hurt, but that’s not it. That’s not the problem.’ Barard kissed Tom’s shoulder again and was silent.

Tom felt suddenly cold. ‘So what is it?’ he asked, his voice gone croaky. ‘Are you... are you telling me you don’t love me the same way?’

‘Nienna’s tears! No!’ Barard jerked upright. ‘What makes you think that?’

How to answer? ‘I don’t know what you’ve been through. I... I don’t know how you feel.’ _Fuck! I don’t know if you’ve been raped!_ But he couldn’t bring himself to say that.

‘I feel...’ Barard hesitated, and Tom waited in the silence, painfully aware of the thumping of his heart. When Barard spoke, his words did nothing to reassure. ‘I feel as though I can’t trust myself, and I can’t trust you.’

 _‘What!’_ Tom tried to pull away, but Barard held tight.

‘Listen. Will you listen, Tom!’ With difficulty, Tom relaxed back into Barard’s embrace, and Barard kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, love.’

‘Why don’t you trust me?’ Tom almost choked on the words. He had been so sure that Barard did. 

‘I don’t trust you to tell me what’s going on, I don’t trust you to treat me as though I won’t shatter into a thousand pieces. You’re acting like you’re walking on eggshells, trying to keep me... sane, trying not to do or say anything that might upset me.’

‘What am I suppose to do?’ cried Tom, angry and hurt. He struggled again to free himself.

‘Shhh, love. Listen. Take the risk. Take the risk that I’ll be all right, that I have to fail.’

‘Fail?’

‘Fail to be as normal as you’d like me to be.’

‘It’s not like that.’ Tom was close to tears. ‘I want you to feel safe.’

‘Just being with you makes me feel safe. I know I’m not right in the head, Tom. It’s one of the reasons I don’t trust myself; I know I can’t stop myself being as I was earlier, but will you trust me to come back to you? Back from the madness?’

‘You’re _not_ mad.’

‘Yes, Tom. I am, a little, whatever Legolas says. Will you accept me, let me be so?’

Tom swallowed. ‘Do you know how hard it is to watch you?’ he whispered.

Barard loosened his hold to slip a hand inside the dressing gown and rub his palm over Tom’s belly. His answer was the question turned back on Tom. ‘Do you know how hard it is to hurt you when I change your dressing?’

‘That’s different. It’s over very quickly,’ said Tom.

‘That’s not my point. I hate doing it, but it has to be done. It strips the badness away, and the wound is healing better for it, much quicker than I thought it would.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that your... your terror attacks -’

‘ - are a badness that has to be stripped away? Maybe. Legolas said as much, anyway.’

Tom hung his head. ‘He told me not to be overprotective.’

‘There you are, then. I love you for wanting to protect me, but will you promise me you’ll stop?’

‘I promise I’ll try; I don’t think I can do more.’ 

Tom was hoping that Barard would nuzzle and nibble at his neck, but instead he released Tom and came to stand in front of him. He cupped Tom’s face with his hands, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. ‘Good. No, don’t you dare use that arm. I’m going to make you a sling.’

‘What do you mean, I don’t tell you what’s going on?’ asked Tom, as Barard tied a length of bandage into a loop. 

‘Sûlos invited us to dine; Tarlos wants us to go the crowning - at least that’s what I think he said. You’re not even telling me you refused on my behalf.’ 

‘But... but...’

Barard slipped the loop of the bandage over Tom’s head, and twisted it into a figure of eight. He carefully placed Tom’s arm in the makeshift sling. ‘Oh, I know I shouldn’t go, not to the crowning, anyway. The last thing they need is a hobbit having - what did you call it, a terror attack? - in the middle of the festivities, but that’s no reason for you not to go.’

‘But... but...’ Tom was very aware of the inadequacy of his argument. He tried again. ‘I’m not leaving you!’

Barard kissed him. ‘Overprotective,’ he murmured against Tom’s lips, and drew back to look into Tom’s eyes. ‘Are you never going to leave me? Let me out of your sight? If you really don’t trust me on my own, Hanril can stay with me.’

‘It’s not a question of not trusting you,’ said Tom miserably. ‘I can’t bear the thought that you might need me, and I’d not be there.’

‘Well, I think you should go, for friendship’s sake, and to represent Halflings.’

‘I’m not going.’ 

‘No?’

_’No!’_

Barard shrugged, pulling off his clothes in silence. He didn’t argue further, but Tom had the distinct feeling the subject wasn’t closed. Watching Barard, as he stood naked, reaching for the other dressing gown, Tom was painfully aware how little he knew about Barard’s ordeal. The bruises had gone, the sores had almost healed, but the wasted muscles would take time to fill out between prominent ribs and over limbs that were startling in their stick-like fragility. And what of the haunted look that could appear with so little warning? Would that fade? 

Barard held up the dark-green dressing gown, one eyelid quirked up in his _What the fuck!_ expression, and Tom was pulled from his introspection as they both burst out laughing. Embroidered over the back was what Tom guessed was a muskil, but as near to a stoat as made no difference. Barard’s smile faded as he slipped it on. He tentatively touched Tom’s right shoulder. 

‘I can’t imagine how much that hurt,’ he said quietly. ‘What happened?’

‘A man betrayed me. Mehos.’

‘Ah. This would be who Faros was talking about this morning? I couldn’t work out what he said.’ The faint accusation hung unspoken between them: _something else you didn’t tell me._

‘He was captured trying to leave the Citadel in disguise. He’s to stand trial. Unlawful enslavement of a freeman - free _hobbit_ \- is the least of his crimes. Conspiring to assassinate Sûlos and his brother, Yanos, are among the charges laid against him.‘

‘Well, I think I’d rather he were dead.’

‘I think he will be. He’s believed to be behind the murders of many who opposed Daros. Public feeling is running high against him, and if he’s found guilty, he’s likely to be executed.’ Tom bowed his head.

‘Tom, love. What is it? Do you _mind_ that he’s to be executed?’ 

Tom shook his head, although he did mind that he was expected to testify against the man, and so contribute to his execution. ‘No, it’s not that. So many chances.’ _So many chances that led me to you in time._ He wiped his eyes on the material of his sleeve, the dampness turning the dark blue even darker, and looked up at Barard. ‘Did you know? That you were to be executed that day you were rescued?’

Barard frowned. ‘Yes, I knew. They couldn’t resist tormenting me with that, except, to me, it was a... a way out. Forgive me. I wasn’t surprised when the soldiers came, though I didn’t see why I should make it easy for them, but then he - Faros - came, and spoke to me in Westron, spoke of you.’ Now the tears were back in Barard’s eyes. ‘I couldn’t... I couldn’t believe... Oh, Tom, help me.’ The last was a whispered plea, and Tom wrapped his arm around Barard’s waist to draw him in close. With his left hand he pulled their robes open, so they were pressed naked against each other. 

‘Shhh. I’m here, we’re here together,’ murmured Tom, his lips brushing Barard’s ear. ‘You collapsed as he carried you out, but I was there waiting for you. I was so desperate to hold you. I couldn’t really believe it, either. I’d been trying to find you for so long.’ 

Barard took a deep breath. ‘I always knew you’d be looking for me.’ His voice was a little shaky. ‘But the worst days were when I thought you might be dead.’

‘They were the worst for me: the days I despaired of finding you alive.’

They stood in silence a moment, and then turned to each other, tilting their heads as their eyes closed and their lips met. Barard gave a small murmur of contentment as his body seemed to melt against Tom’s, and Tom slipped his left hand from the sling to enfold Barard fully in his arms. He hardly noticed the protest of his shoulder as their mouths moved together, warm and comforting in the familiarity of the dance. 

In the past, such a kiss would have picked up momentum, moving into arousal and foreplay. Any surface, horizontal or vertical, might have been called upon to take over the support of a hobbit heading for enthusiastic climax. The means and duration had varied - depending not only on their own stamina, but also on their location and the likelihood of interruption - and the resultant release might be one-sided, or shared. Tom was certain that it had never before ended with Barard avoiding his gaze as he carefully tied Tom’s dressing gown belt, and replaced his hand in the sling. Only after Barard had fussed around making sure Tom was comfortable did he raise his eyes. Tom, who could read Barard’s moods like a book, could tell he was anxious, and a little voice inside said, _Ask him why! Do it now!_ \- but Tom was finding the day tiring enough already, and was inclined to put off any such question. Instead, he stroked the backs of his fingers down Barard’s face and lightly kissed him: _whatever it is, don’t worry._

In the baths, it was pure bliss to be immersed in hot water, surrounded by marble and a plethora of ornamentation. ‘They like gold, then?’ said Barard as he dropped his robe and slipped into the water beside Tom. 

Tom snorted with laughter at the understatement. ‘You could say that.’ He watched Barard float back in the water with eyes closed. ‘I think Sûlos could fit his whole harem in here.’ 

Barard jerked and floundered, getting water up his nose. He came up coughing and spluttering. ‘He has a harem?’

‘Apparently.’ Tom helped Barard find his feet. ‘But only one queen; I asked Faros.’

‘Maybe we should suggest it to Elessar, just to see Arwen’s face.’

‘You’re a braver hobbit than me to even think it,’ said Tom in all seriousness, and it was Barard’s turn to laugh.

‘Hmm. Yes, maybe you’re right.’ He scooped lemon-scented soap out of an onyx dish and lathered it up. ‘Come here, love.’

Tom sighed with contentment as Barard’s soap-slick hands smoothed over his skin. Water and Barard were always such a great combination, even now when he only seemed concerned with a careful cleaning. The Barard of Tom’s memory would have viewed any opportunity involving Tom, water and soap as utterly wasted had it not led to one or both of them coming with noisy appreciation. Now, Barard’s eyes followed his hands with calm intent as he carefully rolled back the foreskin from Tom’s cock to wash beneath. He rinsed the soap away, apparently oblivious of the reaction he had drawn forth. Tom bit back a whimper of frustration, and with a great effort held back his body’s urge to lift and thrust into the well-remembered touch.

The drying was not much better, as Tom stood - cool marble beneath his feet - to let Barard rub him all over with a soft towel. There was little doubt about his own arousal. His hardened cock twitched as he shifted his stance to allow Barard room to dry between his balls and his thighs, and he was tempted to just grab Barard’s hand and wrap it around his need. Again, memory did not help. Barard loved - had loved - sucking Tom’s cock, and even had they lacked the time, he would have dropped to his knees to tease Tom with a promise of _later._

Barard looked at Tom, his brows drawn into a slight frown, his mouth twisted slightly in a way that meant he was thinking. ‘We’d better leave the wet sling in place, and I’ll finish drying you in our room,’ he said.

‘Why not take it off, and I’ll hold my arm. It’s not far.’ As much as Tom hated the bandage, he was looking forward to its being replaced. The sling didn’t give enough support, and his shoulder was aching, although at least that was a distraction from another ache deep inside. He hoped that either his body would realise the futility of its present demand, or that they might return to their room unobserved; the dressing gown would do nothing to hide his state. It was going to be bad enough passing the servant in the anteroom. The man had given them a knowing smirk when Tom had told him they needed no help and did not wish to be disturbed.

As it turned out, Tom got both his wishes. His cock gave up its hopeful stand, and they met no one. In their room, Barard dressed Tom’s shoulder with care and bandaged his arm again. They spoke little, just the chat needed to get the task done.

‘There,’ said Barard, as he finished. ‘Is that comfortable?’ He picked up a small glazed earthenware bottle with a cork stopper, and Tom swallowed. For love of the Lady! Did Barard not know what he was _doing_ to him? Here he was, naked, in a room that appeared to have been conceived as a backdrop to making love, and he wasn’t sure he could bear the thought of Barard and oil right at this moment. His memories had treacherously brought to mind how sweet it was to fuck Barard, and he knew exactly where he wanted that oil. He knew - so clearly it was painful - how he would tremble in anticipation of the bond of penetration, and how Barard’s whole body would somehow, in a way Tom had never been able to define, yield to him at that moment of entry. 

’Are you all right, Tom?’

Well, there was really no answer to that, not without risking upsetting Barard, so Tom just nodded. He reached for the cloth that would at least let his poor cock hide, but one-handed, it was impossible. Barard made no move to help. Instead, he stayed Tom’s hand.

‘Do you mind? Leaving it off?’

Tom took a deep breath and shook his head, not trusting his voice. It would not take much to push him to tears again. He lay back on the silk sheet with his free arm bent over his face, shutting out the light and the room. How ungrateful could he be, he wondered. He was behaving like a spoilt brat, who on receiving a wondrous present, sulked because he wanted more. He rubbed his face, removed his arm, and smiled at Barard. ‘Sorry, headache,’ he said. 

Barard looked less worried. ‘Well, I can do something about that,’ he said, and the slight emphasis on “that” implied there were other things he couldn’t do anything about. He settled at Tom’s feet, and Tom had an excuse to close his eyes as Barard set to work. The touch was hesitant at first, but became surer, and even though Tom had lied about the headache, he found himself relaxing. Barard’s hands moved on, and Tom’s shoulder warmed, and the dull ache diminished.

That’s wonderful,’ he mumbled, and meant it. 

Barard finished and lay down next to Tom, reprising his position of earlier: head on Tom’s chest, one leg bent up across his body. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Mmm.’ Tom wrapped his arm around Barard’s shoulders, and his fingertips lightly defined the shape of his ear. It was very endearing how much his ears seemed to stick out when there was no hair to frame them. 

‘Why were you whipped?’

‘I threatened to kill my master.’ _Don’t ask me why._

‘Why?’

‘He was... he was going to harm Catos.’

‘Well, good for you. What was he going to do to him?’

Tom was silent, and Barard raised his head. ‘This is you not trusting me, isn’t it?’ he said, not with any bitterness, just stating a fact. 

‘I... I...’ Tom gave up, because Barard was right. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. He wanted to make Catos suck him off.’

 _‘What!’_ Barard bolted upright, outrage written clearly in every line of his body. ‘How old... No, that doesn’t matter, does it? Orcs’ blood! I’d have tried to kill him, as well.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘He didn’t try anything like that with you, did he?’ 

Tom shook his head. ‘No, but he abused Faros for years. Maybe from as young as eight; Faros wouldn’t say.’

‘The slimy lecher! What’s happened to him?’

‘He’s been arrested on Sûlos's orders, but I think they’re shy of bringing him to court and dragging Faros and Catos into the mire. I can see their point. It isn’t very good for the restored Houses, is it? They might just banish him.’ Tom looked up at Barard: there was no sign that this subject had any personal resonance. He seemed shocked on behalf of Tom’s friends, that was all, and Tom was at last emboldened to ask the question that had filled his mind like a fiery Eye. ‘So... nothing like that happened to you?’ he said with enforced casualness.

Barard stared at him a moment, and then collapsed back down beside him. His face was hidden, and Tom cursed himself as he felt Barard shaking against him. There was a noise - half sob, half hiccup - and Tom bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he murmured. ‘Sorry to ask, but -’ He broke off as Barard raised his head, shaking with laughter.

‘You wanker, Tom. Is that what this is all about? Not touching me? Pretending you’re not aroused? And I thought... Oh, you are _such_ a wanker.’

‘What? What did you think?’

Barard pushed himself up further, laughter lighting his eyes in the way Tom loved. ‘I thought you didn’t know how to tell me you didn’t... desire me.’

‘Not desire you!’ Tom spluttered.

‘Well, I look like a scrawny chicken plucked ready for the oven.’

‘And what’s that got to do with anything? It’s you who’s been avoiding - mmmpf.’ 

Barard’s mouth closed around Tom’s to silence him, and his hand wrapped around Tom’s cock. ‘Shhh, love, just tell me you want this,’ he murmured against Tom’s lips. Tom opened to him, his tongue giving answer, but not in words, and his hips added their plea, lifting to meet Barard’s hand. _Oh, I want this, I want you. Oh, my love. Yes, YES! Oh, fuck this bandage, I want to touch you. Do that... do that again. Oh, Barard, I love you, I...’_ His body lifted, pushing up against Barard. He scrabbled uselessly with his feet for purchase, trying to arch into the thrust of his hips, and then his whole body went rigid as release took him. He fell back bonelessly, eyes closed, panting. Fingers stroked over his face, and Barard’s voice was soft against his temple.

‘Wanker.’ 

Tom opened his eyes to find Barard’s gaze on him: green fire that burnt too close to bring into sharp focus. ‘Wankee,’ he corrected, and the green fire flared in laughter. He moved with difficulty, to push Barard onto his back and cover him. Mouth sought mouth, tongue met tongue, and their bodies seemed to relax into each other. Tom eased sideways to slide his hand down Barard’s belly, slick with his own seed, and suddenly Barard was tense beneath him, and his mouth stilled. Tom froze, confused, and shifted his hand to the bed beside Barard’s head so that he could raise himself. Barard reached up, his face anxious again, and cupped Tom’s face with his hands.

‘I... I’m sorry, Tom. I told you; I don’t trust myself.’

‘Don’t...? What!’

‘If I don’t... If I can’t... Will you mind?’ 

The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. This, _this,_ was why Barard had been holding back. First answer the question, Tom decided, then worry about why. ‘No, love - or yes, but only because I’ll mind for you. Would you rather I didn’t even try?’ 

The anxious lines of Barard’s face smoothed away; his right leg was trapped beneath Tom’s body, but the other rolled out in clear invitation. 

Tom’s arm was getting tired of supporting his upper body, and he struggled up into a kneeling position. ‘This would be easier with the bandage off,’ he suggested. 

‘No.’

‘It’s just that I could -’

‘No.’

Tom sighed, but he hadn’t really expected anything else. He shifted clumsily until he was between Barard’s legs, and Barard’s right leg rolled out to mirror the left. Tom knelt back on his heels in silent enjoyment of the sight - short hair curling at the base of part-lengthened cock, balls hanging low in their sac - until Barard lifted himself on his elbows and raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘This is you trying, is it?’ he asked.

‘No, this is me thinking how much I love you.’ Tom cupped Barard’s balls, feeling their weight nestle in his palm, and rolled them gently with his thumb. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered and bent over to kiss Barard’s cock. Barard snorted in disbelief, and Tom raised his head. ‘Excuse me, I was talking to your cock.’ 

Barard’s body shook with laughter. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you,’ he said quietly. They smiled at each other, and Barard stayed propped on his elbows to watch Tom lick and nibble his way up to the tip. As Tom shifted his hand, to drag back the loose foreskin, he wondered what Barard was worried about: already his sac was tighter, his cock fuller and more rigid. It was awkward, though, like bobbing for apples with hands tied behind the back, and Tom’s own worry was whether he would be able to stay the course if Barard were slow to come. He was getting stronger every day, really he was, but already he needed his hand to support himself; he was shaking slightly with the effort of holding himself in this position. He captured the crown of Barard’s cock in his mouth, and his lips slid over silky smoothness; he gave a hum of pleasure as his tongue explored the different contours and textures and he tasted _Barard._ How could he have forgotten how good this felt? And yet, maybe in a wish to dull the pain of loss, he _had_ forgotten. He gave up trying to use his hand as well, and propped himself on his forearm as he dragged his lips back up, feeling them catch on the ridge that defined the crown. He teased and sucked, his tongue busy all the while, and Barard’s hips pushed up in a slow writhing thrust.

'Oh... fuck,’ whispered Barard. 

Tom laughed softly just at the moment his tongue was busy exploring the fluid leaking from the opening, and he nearly lost his hold. Barard came to his aid, his fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft, and that was easier. Tom took him deep, caressing and loving Barard’s cock, caressing and loving Barard.

As he drew back again, he tilted his head to look along taut belly and panting chest to Barard’s face. No longer propped up, he had fallen back against the pillows, his eyes closed and mouth softly open. There was no doubt in Tom’s mind that Barard would not last long: the small whimpers told him so, and the fingers that caught at the silk sheets as though begging for release. Long absence had in no way dulled Tom’s knowledge of Barard, gained over so many years, and he knew exactly how to give Barard what he craved. There was the merest flutter beneath his tongue, and he would have laughed again with joy had he not been so busy. In past times, he would have worked to delay the moment, eased back and teased Barard, but that wasn’t what he wanted now. When had Barard last come? To worry that he _couldn’t?_ He sucked hard, and Barard jerked beneath him with a cry. The flutter became a rhythmical pulsing of warm seed flooding Tom’s mouth.

When Tom lifted his head, Barard was lying with his forearm across his eyes, his chest heaving; there were tears on his face. ‘Oh, love,’ murmured Tom. He couldn’t lie down next to Barard fast enough, and with a sob Barard pulled him close and hugged him. Tom rubbed the tears from Barard’s face with his thumb, and kissed him. ‘Are you going to tell me why you were worried?’ he asked gently. 

‘I... I was so lonely in my prison, and I tried to make myself come, just for the comfort of it, really, but I... I couldn’t. I had memories of you that were so vivid I could almost believe I was feeling you touch me, but my cock just stayed limp. I gave up trying, in the end. It was just one more thing that made me feel as though I didn’t exist, that I was no longer me.’

‘My poor Barard. What was it like? In the dungeon?’

‘There wasn’t much light. To start with I had a long chain, and I could walk about, but that changed after I tried to throttle one of the guards with it. He had his keys at his belt, and I thought I might escape, but there were others close enough to hear.’

‘What happened?’

‘They kicked me off him and beat me senseless. They didn’t give me any food or water for a day, maybe more. I thought they were going to leave me to die. In the end, a woman came. She was terrified of me. Those bastards didn’t know I wouldn’t attack her, and just sent her in on her own.’

‘But you didn’t.’ Tom hadn’t needed Tarlos telling him that to know Barard would not have done so.

Barard shook his head. ‘So the guards always used the slave girls after that. They were kind; they even cared for me when I got some sort of dysentery and was throwing up and soiling myself. I wouldn’t have minded if it had been you cleaning me up, but it was embarrassing, or it was afterwards; I was too far gone to care at the time. They brought me things sometimes, trying to give me some comfort.’

‘And the guards took them away and beat you up,’ said Tom, anger welling.

‘How did you know?’

‘Tarlos talked to one of the girls.’

‘I’d like to thank them. Do you think...’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged. I’d like to thank them, as well, and thank them for telling Tarlos about you. That was the first I knew you were alive.’

Barard stroked Tom’s hair back from his face. ‘When? When did you find out?’

‘A week before you were rescued.’

‘What? No!’ His hand stilled in the act of tucking Tom’s hair behind his ear. ‘You didn’t _know_ that I was alive?’

Tom shook his head, and suddenly all the misery of the not knowing came back to catch his breath in his throat and bring tears to his eyes. ‘No one knew; no one had seen you.’

‘Oh, shit and corruption! I can’t imagine what it would be like not to know for so long. Oh, Tom. I’m s -’

Tom shot up. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it! You don’t have to apologise to me, Barard. Can we get that straight right now!’

The look of contrition vanished from Barard’s face, to be replaced by a Tookish grin. He patted Tom’s cheek. ‘I love that you’re getting angry.’

‘What!’ Barard had always hated it when he was angry. Tom hoped he hadn’t developed a taste for getting beaten up, because he certainly wasn’t going to oblige him.

‘Tom! Your face! I _meant_ you’re treating me normally.’ 

Tom lay back down and glared at Barard. ‘You really are a crazy Took, do you know that?’

Barard wrapped his arms around Tom again, and kissed him. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call me that. Now I know you don’t really think I am.’ Tom rolled his eyes at this logic, but Barard was right up to a point: he had consciously avoided using the word “crazy”. 

‘It wasn’t because I thought you were,’ he explained. ‘It was because I was worried you might think I thought you were.’

Barard unwrapped his arms from around Tom, and knelt up over him. He twined the fingers of his left hand with Tom’s right. His face was serious. ‘There’s something I have to tell you, Tom. Something important.’

Tom swallowed and waited, holding eye contact with Barard. Now what?

Barard smile down at him. ‘I love you.’ 


	14. Chapter 14

It was early in the morning when Tom rose, easing himself out of Barard’s embrace. Barard muttered something unintelligible before rolling onto his back with arms flung wide. Tom paused, letting Barard’s steady breathing confirm he was still asleep. It had been a hot night; they had made love with languid movements, and slept with not even a sheet to cover them. Now the air was a little cooler in the dawn, chill only by comparison to the heat that had gone before, with no breeze to stir the silk hangings. Tom stood and smiled down at the sleeping form. 

In the six weeks since Barard’s release, his cheeks had rounded a little, and his hair had grown enough to hide all trace of the skin beneath, although his ears still appeared very prominent without the thick curls to surround them. The dark circles beneath his eyes had vanished, and he looked very peaceful. One hand hung over the bed, palm uppermost, fingers gently curled; the other rested on the pillow beside his head. Tom was tempted to run his hands down over chest and hips to feel how Barard was beginning to fill out - sharp prominences disappearing under a cover of returning flesh - but he contented himself with seeing the change clearly. Barard’s ribs were no longer thrown into stark relief by the shadows between them, and the sharpness of his hips had softened. The servants in the palace kitchen seemed to have taken his health as their personal mission; treats and snacks appeared between meals with a regularity that would have satisfied even the greediest hobbit. 

Tom sighed. It was no good; his will was not strong enough: he bent down and lightly touched his lips to the palm that lay open to him. _I love you._ As Barard sleepily murmured his name, Tom shifted to kiss the tip of the soft cock that flopped sideways against Barard’s thigh. Barard twitched and muttered, but didn’t really wake. Regretfully, Tom covered him with the sheet that had fallen off the foot of the bed in the night. He sighed again and rolled his left shoulder a little, before slipping on the traditional dress Hanril had left ready. He’d discussed this choice with Faros, and accepted his friend was right, but he still felt self-conscious as he stepped quietly through to the outer room. He was not at all surprised to find Hanril already there. 

‘Good morning, Tom. You look very fine.’ Hanril circled around him, considering him from all angles. 

Tom fidgeted in embarrassment. ‘You think so? I feel silly. I can just imagine what my brothers would say if they could see me now.’ 

‘But the point is that in Hafarian eyes it will give you the status you are entitled to; they will be more likely to listen to you, less likely to treat you as though you are a child. Look!’ Hanril turned Tom to face a long mirror hanging between the windows, and Tom stared in surprise. A small Haradrim stared back. His skin, always quick to brown in the sun, was almost as swarthy as Hanril’s, and the white of the ankle-length dress accentuated the darkness of his colour. True, his black hair was curly, and it lacked the silky fineness of a Southron’s, but overall the effect was pleasing. Hanril was right: the dress - buttoned down the front and edged in blue - didn’t look silly. Tom settled the gold belt more comfortably about his waist and wondered what Barard would think if he were to wear an earring. Hanril laughed at him. ‘Now you’re looking smug. Come and have some breakfast before Lord Faros arrives.’ 

Tom took the hot bread Hanril proffered in a serviette, and sat to tear pieces off and dip them in a mix of honey, ground almonds and fruity oil. He leant forward to eat the bread over the bowl, wanting to avoid any mishap involving oil and the pristine cotton of his dress. When he had eaten his fill, he licked his fingers to capture the last of the sticky sweetness, and wiped his hands on the serviette. He accepted a cup of the bitter Hafarian coffee from Hanril, looking up at him anxiously as he did so. ‘You’ll keep an eye on Barard, won’t you?’ 

‘And why else am I here?’ asked Hanril. 

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. That’s the third time I’ve asked you, isn’t it?’ 

‘Fourth.’ 

‘Ah.’ 

‘Don’t worry, Tom. He’ll be fine.’ 

‘Don’t make him...’ Tom hesitated, and then spoke in a rush. ‘Don’t make him feel as though you’re his keeper, will you? He’s lunching with Legolas and Prince Barahir today, and -’ 

‘Yes, I do know, Tom. Stop fussing. If he wants my company, it will be my pleasure to stay with him, and if he wants to send me away, I’ll make sure he knows where I am.’ 

Tom sighed and nodded. Deep down, despite what he had just said, he wanted Hanril to not let Barard out of his sight. He was feeling more and more apprehensive about going with Faros, and was starting to imagine an assortment of improbable accidents that might befall Barard while he was gone. 

‘Tom.’ Hanril’s voice was gentle. ‘Whatever you’re thinking to make you look as sick as that, stop it. Barard will be fine. Didn’t you learn that yesterday?’ 

‘But I couldn’t find him when I got back from seeing Faros.’ 

‘The whole palace knows that, Tom. You had the place in an uproar.’ 

Tom ducked his head sheepishly. He had panicked when Barard was not to be found. Balios had pointed him in the right direction, and Tom had burst into the room where Sûlos' men of science met. The smile Barard greeted him with had banished the last of his fears. Now Tom smiled at Hanril, remembering his own pleasure at finding Barard so engaged. ‘I needn’t have worried. He was in his element, playing with numbers. I couldn’t make head nor tail of all the symbols, but Barard had worked them out. They tried to get me to translate what they were showing him, but... well, truth to tell, I didn’t understand what they were saying. It didn’t seem to matter. You should have seen him, Hanril. I hadn’t realised how quiet he’s been; I mean, I knew he was, but I’d got use to it, I suppose. He got more and more excited as they drew circles and squares, and ruled lines across them and scribbled symbols. And then he started joining in, and they got excited as well, because he’d grasped whatever it was they were explaining to him.’ 

‘Which was?’ 

‘Search me. It was all Khand to me.’ An ambassador from Khand had dined at the king’s table a few nights before and had spoken only through interpretation. It hadn’t even sounded like words to Tom, with lots of rasping and clicking. Now he shrugged his confusion at Barard’s explanation. ‘Something about the “square of the hippopotamus”, but it made Barard happy, so who cares.’ He caught a flick of Hanril’s eyes to the bedroom door, and he craned around the side of his chair to see Barard leaning against the door frame, silently laughing. His dressing gown was fastened askew, and his short hair was rumpled in spikes, but Tom had always found Barard-in-disorder very appealing, and now was no exception. As their eyes met, Barard levered himself away from the door and, still laughing, came to lean over the back of Tom’s chair. 

Tom tilted his head up to meet Barard, and they kissed. Somehow, in all their troubles, they had stopped minding Hanril’s presence in these moments of intimacy. Had Hanril not been there, however, Tom was sure that Barard would have done more than stroke up the taut line of his neck to cup his chin; he would have slid his other hand down to caress Tom’s belly and say good morning to his cock. They parted, and Barard was laughing again. 

‘Hippopotamus? You ridiculous hobbit! One of those creatures down in the river?’ 

Tom didn’t answer. Truth be told, he was barely listening. He was lost in Barard’s gaze, and just stared up at him, happy to be the cause of such amusement. Barard’s smile faltered, and he swallowed, rubbing his thumb over Tom’s jaw. 

A knock on the outer door made them both jump. Hanril opened it and bowed Faros into the room. Faros was looking as though he had not slept enough lately - there was a tiredness about his eyes - but he smiled widely at the hobbits. Tom stood to greet him, and Faros walked around him as Hanril had done. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You make an excellent Haradrim. It suits you.’ 

‘Will you have some coffee, my lord?’ asked Hanril, but Faros shook his head. 

‘Thank you, no. We need to go. Are you ready, Tolm?’ 

Barard slipped his arms around Tom and hugged him. ‘Go on, Tom.’ 

Reluctantly, Tom followed Faros out. It wasn’t just having to leave Barard that had him dragging his feet: he wasn’t looking forward to spending a day in the court. Faros strode off towards the entrance hallway, and Tom had to run to keep up. He spared an occasional glance upwards. His friend’s face was set, and only softened as they saw Catos. The lad was wearing a plain white dress with a leather belt, and was shifting from foot to foot as he waited for them. With him stood the guards who would accompany them to the courthouse. 

Catos dropped to one knee to give Tom a hug. He’d grown again in the time since Barard’s release, and had become tall and gangly, less than half a head shorter than Faros. He smoothed Tom’s dress and nodded in approval. ‘Now you’re a Haradrim. Maybe you’ll stay, yes? And be here for my birthday after the Festival of the Rains? I think it’s unfair; Faros won’t let me wear any colour on my dress until then. It’s only a few weeks away. What difference does a few weeks make?’ 

‘All the difference in the world between being a boy and being a man,’ said Faros. ‘And you know Tolm isn’t staying any longer than the coronation.’ 

‘I wish you could stay,’ said Catos as he stood. ‘I wish you’d make your home here.’

‘I wish I could stay until your birthday,’ said Tom, tilting his head and feeling a crick in his neck as he looked up at Catos. ‘But we must go. I’m not even sure about staying for the coronation. Barard’s well enough to travel, and he’s anxious about his father.’ 

‘Oh, but the coronation’s only a few days away,’ protested Catos, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown as he gazed down at Tom. ‘You said Barard told you that you must stay for that.’ 

Faros rested a hand on his ward’s shoulder. ‘Catos, stop hassling Tolm. He will make his own decisions, and we need to be leaving.’ 

As they turned to walk out into the cool of the early morning, Tom ducked his head to hide a smile. He wasn’t sure whether Catos had come through an infatuation for Faros, or whether the lad had taken his advice about patience, but whatever the reason, Catos had stopped mooning over Faros. As a result, Faros had gradually relaxed around him, and Tom was happy to see the small marks of contact and affection between them once more. 

Catos bounced a little on his feet as they skirted the square, turning sideways so that he could see Faros’s face. ‘So why are you looking so cross?’ 

‘Cross? No, I’m not cross.’ 

‘Yes, you are.’ 

_‘No!_ I’m _not!’_

‘Well, you sound cross. Doesn’t he sound cross, Tolm?’ 

‘Not until you started badgering him,’ answered Tom, truthfully. ‘But I don’t think he’s best pleased with me.’ 

Faros halted, and their guard came to a stop behind them. The market was crowded with those who were sensible enough to do all their shopping early, and many eyes turned their way. Tom could hear the name “Aquilmos” being murmured in all directions. ‘Tolm! No! I’m not angry with you. I just don’t think I can do as you ask.’

‘What’s he asked? What’s he asked?’ Catos was still bouncing with suppressed excitement. 

Faros looked around, realised they were the centre of attention, and started walking again. The tramp of feet resumed behind them, and Faros lowered his voice. ‘He wanted to drop the charges against the Jackal for his betrayal.’ 

‘What!’ It was Catos’s turn to come to a standstill, and there was a quickly muffled curse behind them as the guards were once more suddenly stopped in mid-stride. ‘Drop the...! Tolm, why on earth would you want to do that? The Jackal sold you into slavery; Tarlos has all the evidence! The man who carried the message from Umbar, the witness of one of the bandits...’ 

‘Well, it doesn’t make any difference, does it?’ said Tom with a shrug. ‘I mean, why try him for that when Tarlos will see him dead for the attempted assassination of Sûlos and Yanos. It just seems... pointless. Revenge for the sake of revenge.’ 

_‘Not_ pointless,’ said Faros. ‘Catos, keep walking, or we’ll never get there. Look, Tolm, I told you: we have precious little evidence for his involvement in the fate of the Disappeared, apart from hearsay; the evidence for the attempted assassination is scant; yours is the strongest case. If the other cases fail, would you see him walk free?’ 

‘I would not see him hang because of me.’ 

_‘Because_ of you! Tolm, are all _Harfflings_ so… so wrong-headed!’ 

‘You see. I said he was cross.’ 

‘Catos! I am _not_ cross! It’s just... it’s just, well, the Eye take it, Tolm. Do you think I enjoy the idea of sitting in judgement?’ 

They were back into the cycle of argument they’d been locked into the day before. Tom knew his views would get little sympathy, since unlawful enslavement in Harad was considered tantamount to murder, but he wasn’t about to stay quiet on that account. He glanced up the hill, but he could not see the place where Sûlos had hung eight of his own soldiers found guilty of rape and pillage. ‘You are too quick to deal out death in this country,‘ he said quietly. 

‘That may be true,’ admitted Faros. Tom looked at him in surprise; that was more of a concession than he had got the previous day. Faros shrugged at Tom’s raised eyebrows. ‘But the Jackal must take what comes to him. He’s an evil man.’ 

‘Is any man wholly evil?’ 

‘I don’t know the answer to that,’ said Faros. ‘There may be some who are. Tell me, on what grounds would a _Harffling_ be executed in your Shi-er?’ 

‘It has never happened. Not to my knowledge.’ 

_‘Never!’_ Catos gaped in amazement. ‘Not even for murder?’ 

‘I don’t believe a _Halfling_ has ever killed another. Nineteen were killed by men in the Battle of Bywater, after the defeat of Sauron.’ Tom could have named every one of the fallen hobbits. 

‘And what happened to the men?’ asked Faros. 

‘Many were killed in the battle, but those who surrendered were escorted out of the Shire.’ They were climbing the hill now, and Tom was a little breathless with talking and the pace the men were keeping. It was irksome to realise that he was still not completely fit. ‘Some would have liked to have killed them at the time, in the heat of their anger over their fallen companions, but Frodo of the Ring persuaded them otherwise.’ He sighed. ‘I do understand that Sûlos has to be a strong leader, and I do understand he had to act swiftly against his own soldiers. It’s just that my father always taught me to have mercy.’ 

‘But lives hang -’ Faros appeared to reconsider his choice of words. ‘Showing mercy to such a dangerous man as the Jackal may jeopardise the lives of many, even that of Sûlos.’ 

‘As may hanging him, since a blood vendetta could ensue, yes? I don’t want revenge. My father would not have wanted me to take revenge.’ 

‘It isn’t a question of revenge, Tolm. It’s a question of justice. He is treacherous and deserves to die.’ 

Tom’s eyes slide out of focus, and in his memory he sat curled in Elanor’s lap. His head rested against her shoulder, and his fingers twined in her golden hair. His gaze never left his da’s face as he listened to the words of the Red Book. In the here and now, Tom’s toe snagged on an uneven paving stone. Catos grabbed Tom’s arm and pulled upwards to keep him on his feet. ‘Careful, Tolm!’ 

Tom caught his balance. ‘Bollocks. That will teach me not to try walking in my memories like the Elves. Sorry.’ His toe was smarting, and he hopped a couple of steps, but he had the words he wanted now. He turned to look up at Faros, bringing their guard to a halt again. ‘Listen, Faros. This is what the wizard Incánus once told Frodo of the Ring…’ 

The courthouse was close to the Citadel, but not within its walls, and Tom spared a glance for the tall gateway, outside which he had waited in such fear for Barard’s life. Guards stood there as still as statues. They wore the knee-length tunic of the Citadel guards, but each had a star emblazoned on the chest: the morning star, Dada’s star. Later, Tom had a favour to ask Faros. If it were granted, he would be seeing the inside of the Citadel for the first time. And if he were refused? Well, then he would try to find his own way to the dungeon after the coronation. For now, it seemed as though Sûlos wished to clear as many court cases out of the way as possible before his coronation. Tom felt bad about haranguing Faros; he knew that his friend was taking his duties as judge seriously, and that he’d been worked hard these last few weeks. 

The courthouse was built on a natural plateau on the side of the hill, and its white stone would dazzle the eye once the sun rose above the mountains. It made a striking contrast against the red stone of the citadel. The entrance was flanked by tall pillars; statues stood in arched recesses on either side. On one side a young man fought with a snake that twined around his body, and on the other a woman was letting fly a bird of prey. Tom had no idea of the symbolism, but the woman’s nose was broken, and there were chips in the stone of the columns: a legacy of the recent fighting. 

He had little time to speculate. They climbed the wide steps that led up to the entrance - their way flanked by two lines of guards who snapped to attention at their arrival - and entered a large hall already thronged with people. There was the murmur to which Tom was becoming accustomed, as heads turned and the crowd saw Aquilmos in their midst. Faros touched his shoulder, and led him and Catos to a seat at the front. Guards sat either side of them, making Tom feel like the criminal. He watched Faros stride away to a raised dais where many lords were already seated. Some of them Tom recognised from the palace, but others were unknown to him. What had Faros said? There must be at least ten lords present to try Karios? He counted twenty-four. Was that good or bad? He was honest enough about his feelings to recognise his own ambivalence. As much as he wanted Karios shown some mercy, he didn’t want him acquitted of all charges. Would those who had fought against Sûlos welcome some means of proving their loyalty? Or would they be set on letting one of their own walk free? 

The seating was a series of low benches that part-filled the hall, with standing room behind. The benches were widely separated with long, narrow rugs, finely woven in dark reds and blues so typical of Haradrim weaving, between each row. Tom understood Barard’s interest in seeing such carpets made; there would be a good market for them in the north. He looked up and around. The king’s throne was set off to one side, beneath an ornately carved and gilded canopy. He stifled a snort of laughter as he remembered Barard’s words. _They like gold, then?_

A series of banners hung on the wall behind the raised dais where Faros had taken his seat. As Tom watched, a guard hoisted the banners of the Sun and the White Tree. 

’Why is your banner there?’ he whispered to Catos. 

‘Faros is head of my House, because he’s my guardian,’ came the whispered reply. ‘He casts my vote as well. Shh, here’s the king.’ 

There was a crash of spear butts against stone, which brought silence to the hall. A loud voice called, ‘The Lord Sûlos! High King by consent of the people!’ Tom twisted to look, but Catos grabbed his arm and almost dragged him from the bench. Around them, all were prostrating themselves on the rugs. Ah! So _that’s_ what the carpets were there for! Tom knelt and leaned forward, forehead pressed against the dense woollen pile. This was a stupid custom; he wanted to be able to see. He kept a sideways eye on Catos, waiting for any sign that they could rise, but there was no mistaking it when it came. 

‘All rise in the presence of the king!’ cried the voice. Tom thankfully rocked back onto his heels and levered himself up onto the bench, then hastily stood as he realised that no one else was seated. Behind him, voices were whispering, the words just audible. 

‘The king’s Hawk!’ 

‘Now we will see if a hawk can bring down a jackal.’ 

’I'll put my money on it.’ 

Tom straightened and looked forward. Sûlos stood bareheaded in front of his throne, his profile grave. He was wearing a robe of deep purple, and Tom’s trading instinct wondered at the cost of so much precious dye: possibly greater than that of the gold that adorned the king’s neck and wrists. Yanos stood at his side in his customary southern dress, one hand on the hilt of his sword, glaring across the room. Even from where Tom stood, he could see that Yanos’s brow was drawn into a frown. Tom turned his head to see what Yanos was staring at so intently, and jumped as he met Karios’ gaze, fixed upon himself. The man’s lips curled into a sneer. He was dressed in the garb of a slave or prisoner - Barard had worn something similar - and he was chained hand and foot, as Tom had been in his early captivity. Despite Tom’s instinct to show mercy, he felt a satisfaction in seeing Karios so restrained. Maybe his satisfaction showed on his face, or maybe Karios just despised him for being an imp; whatever the reason, the man reacted by spitting in Tom’s direction. The guards who flanked Karios dragged him back a step as voices behind Tom cried out in indignation. Sûlos made no movement, and it was Tarlos who stepped forward from Tom didn’t see where. Presumably he had arrived in the king’s train, which explained the whispers about the hawk. It seemed that Barard was not the only one who thought Tarlos looked like a bird of prey. Tarlos halted in front of the prisoner and spoke loudly for all to hear. 

‘Behave with contempt in the presence of the king again, Karios bar-Karos, and you will be removed from this court and your trial will take place in your absence.’ Tom wondered if the man he’d known as Mehos would spit upon Tarlos, but the prisoner glanced sideways at the guards and remained silent. Tarlos nodded in satisfaction and turned to bow his head to Sûlos. 

‘Thank you, Lord Tarlos. Proceed,’ said Sûlos. He seated himself. All around Tom, people followed the king’s example, and a soft murmur of sighs filled the room. 

Tarlos turned and addressed the lords seated on the dais. ‘We are hear to decide the guilt or otherwise of Karios bar-Karos, known also as the Jackal, and on occasions as Mehos. He stands charged on three counts: that he was responsible for the fate of those known as the Disappeard; that he did unlawfully sell a freeman of the north, one Tolman bar-Samwise, into slavery; and that he conspired to assassinate the lord Sûlos and his brother, Lord Yanos.’ There was an angry muttering in the hall. Karios stared in disdain at the king, and his head twitched. Tom guessed that he wished to scratch at his scalp, but was prevented by the chains. 

Witness after witness was called, including both Tom and Catos. Tarlos brought forward the man whom Tom had seen taking the message from Karios in Umbar, a slave trader, the wife of one of the dead assassins, relatives of the Disappeared, and guards from the Citadel. The last proved the least helpful, giving surly and unwilling evidence, and contradicting each other. There was only a brief recess for lunch, and as the afternoon wore on, Tom became more and more weary of swinging his heels there. He yawned, and fretted over his absence from Barard. 

Eventually, all that had to be said was said - or rather, all that Tarlos had wanted said. Tom was not best pleased with the Hawk. 

_‘Tolman, tell us who first introduced Karios to you.’_

_‘King Elessar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor.’ Tom ignored the gasps of surprise throughout the hall. Out of the corner of his eye he could see several lords leaning towards each other and talking in low voices._

_‘And how was he introduced to you?’_

_‘As Mehos, a spy in the employ of Gondor, but -’._

_‘Thank you, Tolman. Please be seated.’_

It had been cleverly done. Tom had seen the anger on the faces of those lords whom he didn’t know, those who were maybe not under the king’s influence. He bit his lip. He should have protested against his dismissal, but seeing Mehos standing there in person, arrogant and sneering, made it much harder to follow old Gandalf’s teachings. If they were going to hang the man, Tom wished they would just get on with it, so he could do what he wanted to, and then get back to Barard. It was not over yet, though. The lords filed out into a side room to make their decision, and an attendant of the king bowed before Tom and Catos, inviting them to join Sûlos for some refreshment. 

Catos yawned and stretched, as wearied as Tom by all the words, and they followed their guide past two guards and up a flight of stairs into a light and airy room. A servant was just fastening back the last of a long series of shutters, and Tom blinked after the cool dimness of the court. The walls were whitewashed - from the smell, freshly so - and outlines of a painting were drawn in faint lines. The rugs that part-covered the dark orange-red tiles were woven in pale blues and greens. Little could be seen of the table - it was hidden beneath white cloth and a rich array of food - but the chairs that stood around it were of a light-coloured wood. It was very different from the heavy opulence of the palace dining room. Tom accepted a tall glass of faintly-yellow wine from another servant, and noted the lack of collars. Sûlos had gained many slaves after his capture of Hafar, but all were now freemen in his employ, even if their freedom came at the price of their market value, paid back over many years. 

‘You are weary, Tolm?’ said Sûlos, smiling down at him. ‘Come and eat. Hopefully it won't be long until my lords reach their decision and we are called back.’ He beckoned one of the servants forward. ‘Find a cushion and a footstool for our good friend, Tolman Aquilmos.’ 

The company was small. Yanos, Tarlos, Catos and Tom waited for Sûlos to sit before they did likewise. Tarlos nodded to Tom. ‘You did well,’ he said. 

‘I do not thank you for letting me tell only half the truth,’ said Tom. ‘You let them believe Mehos - Karios, I mean - really was a spy for Gondor.’ 

‘Peace, Tom,’ said Yanos. ‘We believe he did give King Elessar information about a Haradrim raid over the Poros, and that as a result the raid ended in disaster, with much loss of life. The raid had been ordered by Daros, on the advice of Karios, but the Gondorians knew exactly where -’ 

‘But why?’ interrupted Tom. ‘Why would Karios do such a thing, when he hated Gondor?’ 

Tarlos leaned forward. ‘Everything points towards Gondor knowing of the plan; the lord who led our force had offended Karios, and what better way for Karios to convince King Elessar of his worth than by giving him information that was true? There is only circumstantial evidence that Karios betrayed the force he sent out - nothing that we can bring to court - but you have made those who were loyal to Daros think twice about supporting his cousin.’ 

Tom laid down his fork, his food untasted. ‘He would do that? Deliberately send his own countrymen into a trap in order to gain the trust of Elessar?’ 

‘If he wished them dead for other reasons? Yes, we believe so, although from what you have told us, the northern king did _not_ trust him.’ 

‘No. No, he didn’t. Tell me, is Meh - Karios mad? Like Daros?’ 

‘Not like Daros, who had little sense of the real world,’ said Sûlos, ‘but mad for power? Yes, I believe so. From what others now tell us, Daros had rightly begun to fear him -’ 

‘So Daros wasn’t as mad as all that,’ Yanos interrupted. 

Sûlos ignored him. ‘ - and welcomed our arrival as a check on Karios’s power. It seems that it was not Daros who wanted us dead, but Karios. Daros was very cold to his cousin after the assassination attempt. There is no witness to the murder of Daros, but we think Karios is the most likely suspect. He tried to escape in the guise of a slave, but was discovered by my men.’ 

Tom picked at his food; his revulsion at Karios’s cold and calculating schemes was at war with his sense of mercy. They made polite conversation: Sûlos asked Tom of his plans after the coronation, and Yanos questioned Catos about his lessons, and about his ambition once he came of age. 

Catos washed his fingers in the bowl provided, and carefully dried them before he answered. He looked at Yanos, almost defiantly. ‘I want to join your cavalry,’ he said. 

Tom stared at Catos in surprise. It was the first he’d heard of it, but he had not been so much in Catos’s company in the last few weeks. What he did know was that Yanos was planning to take a large force out to patrol the border with Khand as soon as the coronation was over, and it was thought likely that there would be trouble: another cousin of Daros’s had retreated there and declared himself both the head of the House of the Eye and rightful king of Harad. 

‘What has Faros to say of this?’ asked Yanos, not unkindly, but as though he had no wish to commit himself to encouraging Catos against his guardian’s wishes. 

‘It won’t matter, when I’m of age, will it?’ said Catos. 

‘So, he is against it,’ said Sûlos. Tom watched muscles tighten around Catos’s jaw, and wondered if this was an attempt to - what? Get Faros to take more notice of him? An attempt to declare his manhood? Whatever the reason, Tom thought Catos far too young to be a soldier, but it seemed this was not the prevailing view. 

‘If you are really set on this, Catos, then you will be welcome in my command when you can ride a horse at speed without saddle or stirrups,’ said Yanos. ‘And when your swordsmanship is more consistent.’ 

‘Then let me spend more time at those lessons,’ said Catos. ‘I hate the writing and history, and stupid numbers. What do numbers matter?’ 

‘I would wish that my advisers had more skills than how to cut off my enemies’ heads at a gallop,’ said Sûlos sternly. ‘You may not be under Faros’s guardianship after your birthday, but I am your king.’ He ruffled Catos’s hair. ‘Don’t look so glum. I hear you have learnt much with my physician. If you wish, you can start by joining Yanos’s surgeon. I will send a tutor with you, and as for riding and swordsmanship, you will have some of the best trainers. How’s that?’ 

From the expression on Catos’s face, as he looked from Sûlos to Yanos and back again, he was delighted, and even Tom laughed, although he was disquieted by the thought of Catos going into danger. The idea that his young friend should soon be considered a man, when his voice had only just settled down into pleasing deepness, and his shaving was a vanity, not a necessity, seemed ridiculous. 

As the time went by, and they nibbled small delicacies to fill up corners, Sûlos laid a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘This does not bode well, does it, Tarlos?’ he said. ‘There must be enough dissension that the vote could go either way.’ 

‘I admit, I expected a quick verdict, but the charge of responsibility for the Disappeared was not as well supported by the evidence as I would have wished. Let us hope they only argue over that. As long as they find him guilty on one charge, we have him.’ 

‘But those whose loyalty is secure are in the minority,’ said Yanos. 

‘It will be interesting to see who votes against the charge,’ said Tarlos. ‘What’s the matter, Tolman?’ 

‘I’m sorry.’ Tom felt his face heat. He had been staring at Tarlos. ‘I just... I just realised how easy it would be to... to become like the Jackal.’ 

‘Tolm!’ exclaimed Catos, shocked. Tarlos pushed up to stand glowering down, but there was a twitch of amusement around Sûlos's mouth. 

‘Is it your intention to liken _me_ to the Jackal?’ demanded Tarlos, his anger barely in check, ‘A desert rat, who would kill his own mother if he thought it would profit him!’ 

‘Sit down, Tarlos,’ said Sûlos, with quiet authority, and his cousin obeyed. ‘I would also be interested to hear what you mean, Tolman.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom again, feeling very small and wishing he’d kept quiet. He liked and admired Tarlos, and he would not have spoken at all if he’d not considered that their friendship gave him the privilege of choosing honesty over diplomacy. ‘It’s just that you don’t really think of others as people, just whether they are for or against you, and you would do anything to protect Sûlos. Lie, break the law, kill - anything.’

Tarlos nodded. ‘Yes, of course. He’s my king. He has been, since his father died. I am sworn to protect him. It is not just my duty, but my _responsibility_ to protect him. If necessary, I would lay down my life to do so.’ 

‘And in that he shows himself other than Karios, Tolm,’ said Yanos. ‘Karios would do all those things, but only for his own gain.’ 

‘But...’ Tom knew he should just shut up, but his Gardner stubbornness wouldn’t let him. ‘Tarlos, would you not “disappear” people if you thought they were a danger to the king? And isn’t that what you are trying Karios for?’ 

‘But we have brought him to trial,’ said Sûlos. ‘I could have asked Tarlos to kill him, but instead, the rule of law is taking its course.’ There was a finality in his voice that said no further discussion was permitted. Tom bowed his head to Sûlos; what the king said was true, but he wasn’t convinced that Tarlos would always follow the law. 

‘My lord king!’ It was a servant at the door. ‘The verdict has been reached.’ 

Sûlos washed his fingers and dried them; they all stood as he did. ‘Let us go now and hear what my lords have to say.’ 

Tom hung back to walk next to Tarlos, and resigned himself to the familiar crick in his neck as he looked up at him. ‘Forgive me, Tarlos. I didn’t mean to cause offence. I don’t mean that you are really like Karios; you are honourable and loyal.’ 

‘But power changes a man?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘Or it can do, but I’m glad that Sûlos has you to protect him.’ 

Tarlos smiled and patted Tom on the back. ‘Come, my outspoken friend, the king is waiting for us.’ 

Within the courtroom there was a hush as Faros and the other lords returned to their dais. Karios was brought in through a side door and stood before them to hear their verdict. It was Faros who also remained standing as the other lords took their seats, and Tom spared a thought for how strange it must be to Faros to be considered the foremost amongst the lords of Harad. His composure gave no hint of this as he turned towards Sûlos. 

‘My lord king, we have reached our decision.’ Faros glanced back to Karios. ‘On the first count, of culpability in the fate of those known as the Disappeared, we find the evidence is not sufficient by thirteen votes to twelve.’ There was a murmur of anger from the crowd, but Karios made no sign. Tom glanced at Tarlos, but he also gave nothing away. 

‘On the second count, of enslavement, we find him guilty as charged.’ Tarlos let out a soft sigh, but his head came up as Faros continued to speak. ‘The penalty for this is imprisonment.’ Tom stared at Faros, and Tarlos cleared his throat. 

‘My lord Faros, the law -’ 

‘My lord Tarlos, this council will interpret the law.’ Faros gestured to include his fellow judges, who variously nodded or murmured their agreement. Tom and Catos caught each other’s eye, and both bowed their heads to hide their smiles. Tom was pleased that his wishes had been carried out, and amused that Tarlos was being reminded he was there to serve the law; he suspected Catos was simply amused at Faros pulling rank on Tarlos. 

‘By what majority was this ruling reached?’ asked Tarlos. 

‘It was unanimous.’ 

Tom’s head jerked up. He stared at Faros. Catos started whispering in his ear, but Tom hushed him without listening. That meant Faros had voted against the death penalty for this crime. 

‘And the third charge?’ demanded Tarlos. He looked more hawk-like than ever as he leaned forward to glare at Faros. 

‘That also was unanimous,’ answered Faros. ‘On the third count, of conspiring to assassinate the lords Sûlos and Yanos, we find him guilty as charged. The penalty for this is to be beheaded.’ 

Tom watched Karios, even as he listened to the crowd cheering. The man had started to look hopeful after the first two verdicts, but now he sagged for a brief moment before recovering his facade of disdain. 

A voice rang out over the court. ‘Lord Sûlos, High King by consent of the people!’ 

Tom was ready this time. He knelt and prostrated himself as Sûlos stood to leave, no warning nudge needed from Catos. As footsteps died away, a babble of voices broke out. Tom stood a little stiffly and stared at Karios, aware that Faros was making his way over to join them, accompanied by another judge. Tom was not at all sure what his feelings were for Karios: pity or elation. Karios made the sign of the Eye and spat at him. 

‘I suppose you are sad that I was not condemned for your slavery,’ he sneered at Tom. ‘Although the end is all the same.’ 

Faros halted before him. ‘Yes, it is all the same,’ he said. ‘Had that not been the case, I doubt I could have persuaded my fellow judges to consider Tolman’s wishes.’ 

‘And what wishes were those? That I should be teased with the lesser sentence first?’ 

‘That you should be shown mercy, Karios.’ 

‘Mercy! The imp would show me _mercy!_ I should have killed him when I had the chance, but the wolves were greedy and wanted more than I was prepared to pay them to get rid of an annoyance.’ 

Tom went to stand beside Faros, glancing briefly up at the judge who stood beside him. The man was thin, with a rather sickly appearance. Tom had never seen him before, but he was more interested in the prisoner before him. 

‘Karios, why did you agree to bring me here?’ 

The answer was a snarl. ‘Because to refuse would have raised suspicion.’ 

‘And yet you showed me some kindness.’ Tom had to dodge as he was spat at again. The guards jerked the chains, pulling Karios back. 

‘You are a gullible fool. I had no wish that you should run to your Gondorian friends.’ 

Faros laid a reassuring hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘A fool? And yet he is the one who stands free, his quest achieved. Come away, Tolm. There is no gain to be had from bandying words with such as he.’ Gratefully, Tom turned and walked away, feeling revolted. Catos ran up to flank Tom on the other side. With the unknown lord following, they walked out into the afternoon sunshine. Tom took a deep breath. 

‘I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ he said, sadly. ‘Mercy is wasted on such a one.’ 

‘No,’ said Faros, surprising Tom again. ‘I thought on what you said, and I thought on what you’ve told me in the past. It was not the creature Gollum who was ennobled and saved by the mercy shown him. It was Frodos bar-Drogos who gained in the end.’ The other judge nodded, pushing forward a little to be noticed by Tom. 

‘I agree with my friend Faros.’ He bowed his head. ‘I am delighted to have this chance to meet you, Aquilmos.’ 

Tom looked at him warily; something about him struck a false note. The man was quick to claim friendship with Faros, but the very fact that he was unknown to Tom meant that he was not in Sûlos' inner circle, and so was, by default, a former supporter of the Eye. 

Faros smiled as he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, acknowledging the claim of friendship. ‘Allow me to introduce Lord Baklos, of the House of the Moon. Baklos, this is Catos, my ward, and Tolman Aquilmos.’ 

Tom returned the man’s bow in the briefest of gestures. He wasn’t interested in Baklos. He wanted to see the dungeon, with or without the help of Faros, and then get back to Barard. Baklos, however, wished to make conversation. 

‘How is your friend, the _Harffling_ Barard?’ 

‘Well. Thank you,’ said Tom, but not with any warmth; he had no wish to encourage the lord in his familiarity. 

‘Please give him my good wishes and my sympathy for his ordeal. He endured -’ 

Tom’s anger flared and he did not give Baklos the chance to finish speaking. He was in no mood to be diplomatic. ‘Your _sympathy!_ Tell me what you did to help him, and then you may send your sympathy!’ 

‘Tolm.’ There was quiet warning in Faros’s voice. Tom ignored it. 

‘How dare you speak of what he endured! How dare you! Were you imprisoned? In the dungeon?’ 

‘Yes. I was.’ The quiet answer quenched Tom’s wrath like iced water thrown over his head. Suddenly the man’s sickly appearance was explained. Tom swallowed. 

‘You were imprisoned?’ he asked, his voice turned hoarse. ‘In the dungeon?’ He studied Baklos’s face as the man nodded, and he silently cursed his own stupidity and rudeness. The lord wore a wig, no doubt to hide the shameful baldness; it was that detail which had given a falseness to his appearance. 

‘Baklos was active in promoting the idea of peaceful trade with Minas Tirith,’ said Faros. 

‘I’m afraid I was responsible for your friend coming to Harad,’ agreed Baklos. ‘The invitation was given in good faith, although I did not know that the merchant recommended to me was a _Harffling_ until his arrival.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I was a little taken aback, but he was an interesting companion, even with the limitations of language and interpretation. He was greeted warmly at first by Daros, but that changed. I thought it was because those who promoted conflict were gaining the upper hand, but from what Lord Faros tells me, it is more likely that they used the prophecy to create fear in Daros’s mind - never hard to do - and that in turn made him more willing to listen to their policies. Whatever the reason, I felt Barard’s safety was no longer certain. It was at my suggestion that we travelled north.’ Baklos sighed. ‘I mistakenly thought he would be safer away from Hafar, but I do not blame your friend for what happened.’ 

_‘Blame_ him!’

‘No, indeed. He was naturally curious.’ 

Faros touched Tom’s shoulder, his usual way of getting Tom’s attention. ‘I think you should ask Baklos why _he_ was imprisoned.’ His expression said, _You are behaving badly. Stop it!_

Tom looked from Faros to Baklos, letting Faros’s words ask the question for him. With a dull certainty, he knew the answer before it was given. 

‘I was guilty by association. I invited Barard here, I took him north, and I protested his innocence before the king.’ 

If Tom had felt small before, it was nothing to how he felt now. ‘Forgive me. I... I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Barard will be...’ _Mortified._ ‘He doesn’t... I don’t think he knows.’ 

‘I was held in house-arrest for some months before I was transferred to the dungeon, but my short time in there was more than enough. I do sympathise with your friend. I hope he really is doing well.’ 

‘Yes, yes, he is. He makes progress all the time. Thank you for your concern; it is very kind of you.’ _In the circumstances._ Tom stopped talking, afraid he was gabbling. 

‘I would be delighted to see him again. Please don’t distress him over my imprisonment. I will ask Lord Faros for news when I next see him. When Barard is well enough, perhaps you will both dine with me.’ 

Tom bowed, Gondorian fashion, hand on breast. ‘You are very kind, my lord.’ He watched Baklos walk away, past the guards who waited for them. The captain stepped forward, saluted Faros, and asked where they would go next. 

‘We will return to the palace,’ said Faros. Now was the time, and Tom wished he didn’t feel so defensive over his anger towards Baklos and the implied lack of trust in Faros’s choice of friend. He took Faros’s hand to get his attention. Faros came down on one knee, his hand still held by Tom’s. ‘What is it, Tolm?’ he asked with a kindness Tom did not feel he deserved. ‘Surely you wish to get back to Barard as soon as possible?’ 

‘Yes, I do, but... but I also want to look at the dungeon. Will you take me?’ 

‘I don’t think that is wise,’ said Faros quickly. ‘I can’t see any need for that.’ 

‘Faros,’ said Tom wearily. ‘I know you think of me as a younger brother who needs looking after, but I’m fifty-four years old. I think I know my own mind.’ 

‘You can’t really want -’ began Catos, but Faros silenced him with a hand held up. He searched Tom’s eyes. 

‘Very well. We will go to the dungeons.’ 

‘Thank you.’ 

They walked in silence to the Citadel gate and were saluted as they passed through the tall archway. The whole place had an ancient feel. Minas Tirith might be older - Tom didn’t know - but the red stone here was more weathered. He paused a moment, looking up a wide paved road that led to the golden-domed hall where the coronation would take place. Faros did not follow this main way; he dismissed their guard, and turned right along an alley that was bounded by the high Citadel wall. He turned again, following a broader way that climbed in a wide circle around the hill. They came out into a large square, facing south-east and bordered by a low wall; even Tom could see over it. He turned his back on the view, feeling a little queasy with vertigo at the way the hill fell steeply to the river far below. On the far side of the square, the hill rose sheer again to meet the great crowning hall, but within the wall of rock stood a low door in an archway that was delved, not built. 

‘There would have been guards here before,’ said Faros, ‘but it’s empty now. Nothing to guard.’ He pulled open the door. A dank chill met them as he fumbled in a recess for the means to light one of the torches that stood in brackets by the entrance. The light flared, throwing shadows across the walls and enabling Tom to see that this part of the dungeon had housed the guards; here there were rooms with some degree of comfort. Faros lit a second torch and handed it to Catos before leading them to another solid door that barred their way. He took out a set of keys to unlock it. As the door swung open, they were met with a stench that made Tom gag. 

Catos choked. ‘It’s foul! Why does it smell so bad? I thought it had all been cleansed?’ 

‘It has,’ said Faros. ‘Believe me, it was worse before, but the smell lingers. Are you sure you want to do this, Tolm?’ 

Tom nodded, not daring to speak. He was beginning to shiver in the chill, damp air. Marks running down the walls looked as though they were made by water seeping through the rock when it rained. A grill set into the stone barred their way. Faros pushed a gate open with a rusty creak. ‘This would have been locked,’ he said, a little unnecessarily. They passed a number of cells on both sides of the way, each marked by a metal grill doorway. Tom could see little within, until Faros stopped by a door and pushed it open. ‘Here,’ he said. 

Tom stood on the threshold and swallowed as his shadows chased across the wall with the movement of the torches behind him. 

‘Oh, Tolm!’ whispered Catos in a croak. 

_Oh, Barard!_ thought Tom. The cell was hewn out of the rock, and manacles hung from the far wall, where the prisoner could be seen by guards as they looked through the doorway. There was evidence that the chains had been higher, but now they dangled at hobbit height. This corroboration that it truly was Barard’s cell brought tears to Tom’s eyes. All the straw had been removed, along with the urinal pot, but even with those, its bleakness would have been horrifying. The floor was compacted sand, scuffled up in the area below the manacles. High in the wall a little grey light showed where the morning sun would shine through a narrow aperture. Tom swallowed, knowing he was going to meet resistance. ‘I want you to leave,’ he said, amazed at how steady his voice sounded. ‘I want to stay here alone for an hour.’ As though an hour could compare! ‘I want you to manacle me.’ 

Catos just stared at him, but Faros shook his head. ‘No, Tolm. I’m not doing it. You’re being morbid. You’ve seen what you wanted to see.’ 

Tom spun round, hands clenched at his side. ‘Leave me,’ he shouted. ‘Just leave me!’ His voice echoed back to him, shrill even to his ears. 

‘We can make him come with us,’ said Catos. ‘We could carry him out.’ 

‘I’d like to see you try,’ said Tom angrily. 

‘Peace, Tolm,’ said Faros. ’You are too quick to anger these days. I will not force you, but neither will I manacle you.’ He reached to place his torch in a bracket in the wall, but Tom stopped him. 

‘No. No light. Barard was often in darkness.’ 

‘Oh, Tolm,’ whispered Catos again. 

‘Go!’ said Tom through gritted teeth, the only way that he could stop a tremor in his voice. 

‘Tolm, I don’t think -’ 

‘Please,’ Tom begged. ‘Just go.’ He sat down between the manacles, drew his knees close in to his body and rested his forehead against them. The scuffed sand! Oh, Nienna’s tears, that must be where Barard struggled, thinking he was going to his death! He reached out with one hand, smoothing the sand flat with his palm. Faros and Catos held a whispered argument, and then the light filtering through Tom’s closed lids dimmed and went out. He was alone. He reached out for the manacles, feeling for the attachment of the chains, and wrapped his hands around the cold links. Slowly he stood, testing how far he could walk. A few steps, and he was pulled up short. He returned to the wall, misjudging the distance and grazing his elbow on the rock face, but his eyes were beginning to acclimatise to the hint of light, and he fared better as he sat down again. He wasn’t at all sure why it was important to do this. He just knew it _was_ important. He heard the creak of the gateway further up the corridor. Good. They were really leaving. 

The sound of the creak died away in faint echoes, and silence wrapped around Tom. He shivered again, and found himself straining to hear any noise other than his own breathing. There was nothing to mark the passing of time, and as he continued to sit, he was unsure how long he had been there. The walls - barely seen as a play of shadow against blacker shadow in the faint light - seemed to be closing in on him. It was almost a relief when something brushed against his foot, making him yelp in surprise. There was a flurried pattering of feet, and then silence again. Rats! How did they live now the prison was emptied? Or could they run up the wall and out through the high vent? He closed his eyes to make the darkness absolute, and tried to imagine the terror of being manhandled into the cell, forced into chains, left alone. 

Already a little voice was whispering that surely the hour must be nearly up, that Faros would return soon. What had Barard said? That at first he hadn’t believed his imprisonment was happening? How long before that disbelief turned into the sickening knowledge that his world was this cell? _‘I always knew you’d be looking for me.’_ How had Barard continued to believe that, as day followed day in this foul orc pit? Tom shifted uncomfortably, and the chains clinked and rattled; the sound, amplified by the silence, echoed faintly. If just sitting was uncomfortable, how had it been sleeping? In the dark, Tom pictured Barard curling into straw like an animal, hampered by his chains. Tears were not far away. He stood and stretched his shoulders, stiff already, and moved so that he could lie down while still holding the chains. He found a hollow in the sand that he could curl into. At the realisation that it must have been made by Barard’s body, he laid his head on his arm and stopped trying to hold back his tears. 

_Barard! Oh, my Barard, how did you bear it? I can’t bear thinking about you here for even one hour! Surely, the hour has gone by? Where is Faros? It’s all right, it’s all right, he’ll be back, and I can walk out at any time, feel my way along the corridor. I want... I want you, Barard!_

He rubbed his face against his sleeve, feeling the dampness seep through the cloth - warm at first, but rapidly becoming chill. It was a struggle to get up. He rubbed the hip he had been lying on, and moved around in the cell to warm himself, turning back and forth as he reached the limit of the chain. Very clearly, he could see Barard’s halting gait in the immediate aftermath of his release. Of course! His ankles had been chained as well. Well, Tom knew what that felt like, how awkward his movement had been; he adjusted his stride accordingly, listening all the time for the welcome creak of the outer door. 

It was tiring walking with such little steps, and eventually Tom sat again, but his guess was that only exhaustion would allow him to sleep here. How many breaths made up a minute? Eight? Ten? He tried to keep his breathing even as he counted each slow rise and fall of his chest. The time taken to draw and release ten breaths seemed to stretch into an eternity of darkness. He took a deeper breath as he reached ten, and had to force himself not to repeat the exercise. An hour in Harad was not set as it was in Gondor. Here, an hour was one tenth of the daylength. With that realisation, he stood again, shaking. He had been away from Barard too long - for his own good, if not for Barard’s. He released the chains to clatter against the rock wall, and walked unsteadily towards the dimly-seen bars of the door. As he reached them, he heard the creak of the outer gate, and light flooded the corridor. He sagged with relief. Faros was back. 

Tom waited, leaning his head against the cell door. Faros took one look at him, handed his torch to Catos, and without a word, picked Tom up and carried him out into the daylight. Tom made no protest, but wrapped his arms around Faros’s neck to feel his solid warmth. Faros sat him down on the wall, and Tom carefully avoided looking over his shoulder at the steep drop behind him. Faros crouched down and rubbed Tom’s hands between his own. 

‘You’re frozen,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we didn’t wait out the hour.’ 

‘And filthy,’ added Catos. ‘What have you been doing? Rolling in the dirt?’ 

Tom looked down. His white garb was stained with dark smears, probably from when he’d lain down. It didn’t matter. 

‘He’s doing his not-talking thing, isn’t he?’ said Catos, looking to Faros. 

Faros nodded. ‘Come on, Tolm. Let’s get you back to the palace. You need a hot bath, I think. Shall I carry you? Send for a litter?’ 

‘I... I can walk,’ said Tom. He wanted to get out of the shade of the Citadel and into the sun. He shivered. ‘I want to get back to Barard.’ 

What Tom really wanted was time alone with Barard, but there he was out of luck until late in the evening. When he returned to the palace, Hanril was waiting for him with the news that Barard was again with the men of science. Tom bathed and changed, and by the time Barard appeared, it was time to join the palace household for supper. Tom made his excuses early. He was tired by the heat and the eventful day, and he felt drained. Barard took his hand as they walked back to their room and looked at him with concern. 

It was another hot evening. Their windows stood open, and again there was no breeze. Tom pulled off his clothes and threw them down anywhere. He flopped out on the bed and lay staring up at the silken hangings. 

Barard knelt, straddling Tom’s hips, and smoothed his hands over Tom’s chest. Candlelight flickered over his naked body: night lights to ease his terror and disorientation when he awoke from a nightmare. ‘You look exhausted, love,’ he said. ‘Was it so bad in court? Sûlos and the others seemed very satisfied, although I couldn’t quite work out what was going on between Tarlos and Faros. They were like two dogs with their hackles up, eyeing the same bone.’ 

Tom yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘A little shaking down. Faros showed he was prepared to stand up to Tarlos today. That bodes well for Hafar, I think. Tarlos is a good man, but he needs to know that he answers to the law. I believe Faros can do that.’ He sighed as Barard leant his weight into the sweep of his palms, upward and outward over Tom’s shoulders, easing the tension there. 

_’Was_ it so bad?’ Barard asked again softly. He rocked back a little, his weight on Tom’s hips, a frown of concern drawing his eyebrows together. ‘Tom? What is it? You’ve been out of sorts all evening.’ 

Tom raised a hand to his eyes, squeezing to block his tears, and felt Barard cover him with his body. Kisses ghosted across his temple, and fingers gently traced over his face. 

‘Tell me, love. Is this something to do with the Jackal?’ 

Tom didn’t answer. Behind the darkness of closed lids and hand, he could see the miserable prison. He hugged Barard to him. 

‘Tom.’ Barard nuzzled close, solid and warm in his arms. ‘Tell me.’ 

There was a part of Tom that didn’t want to burden Barard with this, but he had taken to heart Barard’s words on trust, although news of Baklos could wait. ‘I went to the dungeon. I wanted to see for myself.’ 

Barard went very still, and for a moment was silent. He sighed. ‘Was that wise, love?’ 

‘You sound like Faros.’ 

Barard pulled away. ‘What! Faros calls you “love”? I’m heartbroken!’ 

Tom opened his eyes, and couldn’t help smiling at Barard’s expression of mock woe. He knew it was an act - not of woe, but bravado. He could feel Barard trembling, but if Barard wanted to try to make light of the dungeon, then Tom would help him. ‘He’s a handsome man,’ he said. 

Barard tried to laugh, but his breath caught on a sob. ‘Why did you go, Tom?’ 

‘Because I had to see. I... I can’t explain any better than that.’ 

‘And now I suppose you think you know what it was like!’ The sudden anger caught Tom unawares, and he flinched. 

‘No. I can’t possibly.’ 

‘No! You can’t possibly! So why... so why try?’ Barard’s anger collapsed back into tears. ‘Don’t think of me there! Don’t!’ 

Tom drew Barard back down into his arms. ‘Shh, love. I really did need to go and see. It’s haunted my dreams for so long. I don’t know what it was like for you, and I can’t, but I know a little better than I did this morning. When I think of you - when don’t I think of you? - I think of you lying in bed with the morning sun lighting up your hair into flame, or in moonlight with your body as pale as silver.’ He tucked a leg around Barard’s and rolled them both over. ‘I think of you caught in a thunderstorm with your shirt clinging to you. I think of you laughing in the Green Dragon and calling me a wanker, or stretching at sword drill with the Tower Guard.’ He freed an arm from beneath Barard to stroke down his body, cupping and kneading at his hip; with Barard beneath him, all thoughts of tiredness had vanished. ‘I think of how much I love you, and how much I love loving you.’ He kissed the corner of Barard’s lips, tasting the salt of tears, and Barard turned his head to capture Tom’s mouth, opening to him in a way that said _Love me, I’m yours._

Their tongues and lips moved together in slow heat, while their hands took up the rhythm. _Love me, slowly._ Fingers tangled into Tom’s hair, pressing him closer. Tom arched his body, pushing his hips down against Barard’s, and eased from the kiss to gaze down into Barard’s eyes. 

‘I’m going to suck you off until you’re begging for it,’ he whispered. ‘And then I’m going to fuck you senseless, but first... first I’m just going to look at you.’ He kissed Barard - a brief promise - and pushed himself upright. Barard made a small protest, lifting his head to try to catch Tom back into a deeper kiss, then stilled beneath him. Straddling Barard’s thighs, Tom shifted his weight until he could capture both their rigid cocks. He rubbed his thumb over the silk-smooth crowns, spreading and mixing the beads of fluid that leaked there, and reached forward again so he could trace Barard’s lips with the fingers of his other hand. 

Barard slowly stroked up Tom’s thighs. ‘Fuck me,’ he pleaded. ‘You haven’t fucked me since I... since...’ He swallowed. ‘Fuck me _now.’_

Tom shook his head, thoughts hazing into desire. What was the first thing he’d been going to do? Oh, yes! He stared into eyes that were dark with wanting, and it was only with a huge effort that he found his voice. His words came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m going to have you; wait now.’ He rolled their cocks together, feeling Barard tense beneath him as he tried to thrust up, fingers tightening against Tom’s thighs in frustration. Tom’s gaze travelled slowly down Barard’s face and body, taking in the tracks of dried tears, the full lips parted on a soft sigh, the chest rising and falling. The areolae were dark against the candlelit skin, the nipples aroused and inviting. Below Barard’s navel, hair grew in a sparse line that thickened and spread into red-gold framing the base of his cock. Tom’s own cock was the thicker, but Barard’s was longer, and the exposed crown was a darker red. ‘So beautiful,’ Tom murmured. ‘You are so beautiful.’ 

‘This is my cock you’re talking to?’ 

Tom lifted his head to smile at Barard. ‘If you say so.’ 

Barard swallowed and reached up to frame Tom’s face with his hands. ‘I love you, Tom Gardner. Did you know?’ 

Tom shook his head. ‘I don’t think you ever told me so before.’ They both snorted with laughter. Tom shifted to turn and lie alongside Barard, head to cock, and Barard rolled into his upside down embrace, nuzzling and licking. Their actions mirrored each other, head pillowed on the other’s inner thigh, even as they both rolled their hips out a little and bent the upper leg away to give the other unfettered access. Tom ran his tongue down over the root of Barard’s cock, licking and teasing a little at his arse, while his hand was busy dragging back the loose skin from the crown. He closed his eyes, heightening his awareness of Barard: the feel of his skin, the rich muskiness of his scent, the small sounds of arousal. The next moment he cried out softly, the sound muffled against Barard’s skin. Barard had taken his cock deep within his throat to suckle, and at the same time grasped his balls to roll one against the other. So good! Tom tightened his grip to slide his hand back up, and traced the crown of Barard’s cock with his thumb, the silken smoothness made smoother by the fluid he found to spread there. Barard moaned and pressed in, encouraging another slow downstroke, even as Tom’s tongue was busy elsewhere. Barard was... Tom wasn’t sure what Barard was doing with _his_ tongue, but there was no mistaking the effect. Tom was falling into the darkness, conscious thought slipping away as another part of his mind was wordlessly demanding _more._ He wanted to give way, fuck Barard’s mouth until the throbbing need found relief in the intensity of release, but... Oh, that was so... So good! But! He had promised to make Barard beg, promised to fuck him; he _wanted_ to fuck him. It had been far too long. There was no oil, not without moving, and he wasn’t ready to do that. He coated his forefinger with Barard’s fluid while his tongue delved deep, giving promise of penetration. Barard’s body went rigid, a silent plea, and Tom shifted slightly and eased his finger home. It was so much easier to broach Barard than in their first tweenage fumblings. Even so, Tom wasn’t going to go any further yet, not without oil, however much Barard was pushing against him, demanding more. He captured Barard’s cock within his mouth and felt Barard’s dilemma as he tried to both fuck Tom’s mouth and ride his finger at the same time. 

Tom pressed in deeper, even as he worked Barard’s cock. Barard clutched at him, and his whimpering cries spoke of control that was almost lost. Tom’s own thoughts were clouded with need. He could carry on, bring Barard off now, and it was tempting not to have to move, not to lose this close communion, but he wanted more. The thought of entering Barard after so long almost pushed Tom over the edge, and he rolled back, panting. 

‘Tom!’ wailed Barard. 

‘Sh, shh. I’m going to fuck you, and for that I need some oil.’ 

Barard’s body was flushed and bathed in sweat, a lovely sight. He reached out to their bedside table, fumbling for the small flask to give to Tom. 

Tom rolled up and knelt beside Barard, fondling around his cock and balls. ‘How do you want this?’ he asked softly, taking the oil. ‘Do you want to ride me?’ That would be good, he could watch Barard come. ‘Or shall I take you from behind?’ That would be better; he wanted to thrust deep into Barard. 

For answer, Barard rolled over onto his side and curled a little, offering himself. He turned his head back to look up at Tom. _Like this?_ Tom bent down to capture his mouth, overcome with desire, and Barard’s hand came curling at his nape to hold him there. There was nothing slow about this kiss, nothing gentle. The message it carried was _deeper, harder, fuck me. Fuck me, now!_

Panting, Tom straightened, and tipped the oil out with difficulty; he was trembling in anticipation of that moment when he entered Barard, when Barard opened to him and tightened around him. He spread the oil, enjoying the feel of his hand wrapping around his cock in promise of another sheathing. 

‘Morgoth’s balls, Tom! Stop wanking yourself.’ 

Tom smiled down at Barard and gave him some of the same treatment, watching his eyelids flutter closed and his face go slack. He slid his hand over Barard’s arse to spread more oil there, loving the way Barard arched into his touch. Slowly, Tom eased down behind him, moulding to his back. Barard raised himself a little, just enough for Tom to slip an arm beneath him, and then settled with a sigh into Tom’s embrace. 

‘Do you want me?’ whispered Tom against Barard’s ear. He guided his cock into position, teasing a little as Barard pressed against him, whimpering now. 

‘For fuck’s sake, Tom. Do I have to beg? I do, don’t I! Oh, fuck, please, Tom. I want you so badly. I need you so badly.’ His pleas ended on a cry as Tom eased into him, and Tom’s breath caught on a gasp. There was no resistance, and he thrust deep. Oh, glory, but that was perfect. He reached around Barard to stroke his rigid cock again, at the same time nuzzling into his neck to suckle and bite below his ear. He held Barard pressed close against his chest and thrust again with a low cry. He was falling, falling into a place where he was as helpless as a leaf tossed by an autumn storm or a branch trapped in a raging torrent, tumbled and submerged by powers beyond his control. He thrust again, not holding back, and cry met cry, wordless and primal. So close. 

Barard leaned back into him, his fingers snagging painfully into Tom’s hair as he went rigid, and with one final deep thrust Tom gave himself up to Barard and lost himself within Barard, and for a glorious moment, was one with Barard as they came together. 

The moment slowly faded, and he was Tom Gardner with his dear love in his arms. He fell back, exhausted, and Barard came with him, their legs tangled together. Barard’s fingers were still locked into his hair, but apart from that he was like a rag doll in Tom’s arms. They lay together, panting. Tom hadn’t noticed how hot they were, how drenched in sweat. With difficulty, Barard rolled off Tom, and turned to cover him again, sharing sweat and oil and his own seed that covered his belly. His eyes shone in the candlelight, and he looked very Tookish as he grinned at Tom. 

‘I don’t see why I should be the only one needing a wash with cold water,’ he said. 

‘Thoughtful.’ 

‘Mmmm. Yes. I always try to be.’ 

They lay together, hearts still racing, breathing still ragged, hands soothing over heated skin. Tom closed his eyes as Barard buried his face against Tom’s neck, nipping little kisses over his collarbone. Somehow, Tom felt as though they had crossed an invisible barrier and come safely through to the other side. He stroked the short hair over Barard’s head. 

Barard lifted his head, and sighed in contentment. ‘I feel thoroughly...’ 

‘Fucked.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Loved?’ 

‘Oh, yes.’ 

‘Used?’ 

‘In a good way. I’m glad you’ve decided I won’t break.’ 

There! That was the barrier, and Tom hadn’t even realised. ‘I wasn’t too rough?’ 

‘No.’ Barard’s whole body was sated and relaxed. It gave Tom the confidence to believe what he said. 

‘I didn’t hurt you?’ 

There was a sleepy negation. Tom yawned, suddenly aware again of how tired he’d been when he came to bed. They really ought to get cleaned up, and he wasn’t sure where the oil was, nor whether it was securely stoppered, but... but... He yawned again and fell asleep with Barard in his arms. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Shire Calendar, _Wedmath_ is August, and _Halimath_ is September, while In Westron, _Urimë_ is the Quenya for August (Lord of the Rings, Appendix D). I have used _Urimë_ rather than the Sindarin version _Urui_ used only by the Dùnedain.
> 
> Sam's children in canon are Elanor, Frodo (later Mayor), Rose, Merry, Pippin, Goldilocks, Hamfast, Daisy, Primrose, Bilbo, Ruby, Robin, Tolman (Tom).
> 
> We are told Pippin has at least one son, Faramir (married to Goldilocks). I have added Bergil, Hildimir (married to Ruby), twins Pearl and Opal, Emerald, and Barard. The end -ard is fairly common in the Took family tree : Hildigard, Isembard, Flambard, Adelard, Reginard, and Everard all appear in Appendix C of Lord of the Rings. 
> 
> All we know for sure about Merry Brandybuck is that he and Estella had at least one son, since in Appendix B of Lord of the Rings he and Pippin "handed over their goods and offices to their sons" when they went to live out their days in Minas Tirith. I have given him Théodoc (from Théoden and the Brandybuck name ending "-doc" which runs down Meriadoc's family tree) married to Daisy Gardner, Estel married to Emerald Took, and Éowyn married to Robin Gardner.

_**The Shire, Halimath SR 1498 (FA 77)** _

Tom drew himself a mug of water, drank half, and poured the rest over his head. He was feeling hot and sticky, his shirt was clinging to his back, and the sun had given him a headache. Somehow the heat in Hafar had never drained his energy like this. He looked out over the part-harvested field that was half stubble and half standing corn, the ears of grain hanging over in abundant ripeness. Stooks of wheat stood dotted over the stubble, waiting to be pitched up into wagons and taken to the threshing floor. It was a beautiful sight, which somehow epitomised the Shire: blue sky and golden harvest, for all that rain in late Wedmath had delayed it into Halimath. Faramir had finally pronounced the wheat dry enough to harvest without fear of its rotting in the barns, and all hands were not just welcomed, but expected to help in any way they could before the weather turned again. Tom knew that Faramir was hoping for a run of fine days - a Halimath summer as they called it in the Shire - to get all the grain harvest in over the following week. 

Tom looked to where hobbits worked with long-handled scythes, moving in staggered rows to prevent accidents from the wicked blades swung from side to side in sweeping curves. Barard had almost finished his row, and Tom smiled to himself as he watched the damp cloth of Barard’s shirt cling to the developing muscles of his upper arms and chest, the result of their daily wrestling and sword practice. Despite a wide-brimmed hat, the sun had caught Barard’s cheeks, reddening them with that Tookish tendency to burn easily. If there were any present who did not know the youngest brother of the Thain, the stray curl of red-gold plastered against his face would at least give away his connection to the family. 

Tom knew better than to call out or otherwise distract that seemingly casual swing; a scythe was a dangerous thing, for all that Barard handled his like an expert. The foreman did not let novices loose in the main harvest, and each hobbit’s scythe was carefully matched to his height. 

‘He looks well.’ 

Tom jumped and turned to find Barard’s brother Hildimir - his sister Ruby’s husband - had joined him by the water barrel which had been set up on an old sawhorse. He nodded. Yes, Barard did look well, but it had been a long slow process, where two steps forward had been followed by one back. 

‘It’s been good for him, to be back in the Shire.’ 

‘When you came back to last Yuletide I was shocked by how thin he was, and how... well, forgive me, reclusive you both were. It’s good to see that between Goldilocks’ and Rosie-May’s fussing and feeding, and your care, he’s beginning to look his old self.’

‘I’ve never thanked you, Hil, for taking over the Thainship so that Faramir could come to Minas Tirith. Your father’s death set Barard back more than anything. It helped him to know that Pippin had Faramir with him, and it helped knowing that Pippin lived to see him safe.’

Hildimir nodded. ‘That’s what Faramir said. You know it was his opinion that Father hung on stubbornly until he _did_ know, don’t you? He said that Father kept saying you would rescue Barard, and never mind how much anyone told him you were both feared dead, since there was no news of either of you.’ Hildimir smiled, his former grief turned to fond memories. ‘Faramir said Father had great pleasure in saying “I told you so”, but he always did like being proved right.’ 

‘You mean like the time you planted that new grape variety?’ 

‘No need to bring that up, Tom.’ Hildimir winked at him. ‘Nothing ventured, and all that. How’s your business going?’ 

‘We’re doing well with trade from Harad. Our partner, Hanril, is there at the moment.’ 

Hildimir nodded and changed the subject. Harad wasn’t a popular topic of conversation amongst their relations. ‘Will Barard come to the harvest supper? He’s been coping much better with big family gatherings recently. Do you think you can persuade him to something as public as that? After all, he’s _here,_ and I have to admit, I doubted he’d show.’ 

‘He knows as well as any how important it is to get the harvest in, but you notice he’s been swinging his scythe most of the time.’ 

‘Keeping himself to himself, you mean? Yes, I noticed that. How are things between you two? Is everything all right?’ 

‘Fine. We’re fine.’ 

‘That’s good. I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you found Barard and brought him home. We were all in shock when your letter came last year. When you disappeared as well, Ruby was beside herself. I’ve not really had a chance to talk to you about all this, I never see you apart from Barard.’ 

‘And you want to spare Barard?’ 

‘Exactly.’ 

‘You’re wrong. Barard finds it hard that you all tiptoe around him. I made the same mistake myself to start with, but Barard put me right. He’d rather any problems he might have aren’t in public, though, with the likes of Hob Sandyman looking down their noses and making snide comments. It’s one reason he doesn’t like going out in public. With family, it’s different.’ 

‘All very well to say, Tom, but he did scare the children when that wind whipped through the Great Hall, and all the candles went out.’

‘Maybe, but I think they understood better than any of you. Were you never afraid of the dark when you were little?’ 

Hildimir ignored that question. ‘So what do you do at night?’ he asked. 

Tom looked at the older hobbit and kept a straight face as he said, ‘Well, Barard likes me to -’ 

‘Tom! I don’t want to know the lurid details of what you do behind closed doors! Stop laughing, you upstart Gardner; you know that’s not what I meant!’ 

Tom carried on laughing. Angelica’s insult had passed into legend as a family joke, and he took no offence at what had become the Tooks’ equivalent of the Gardners’ calling them crazy. ‘I’m sorry, Hil; you were just being rather pompous. We leave an oil lamp burning. He still has occasional nightmares, and he panics if he wakes in the dark.’ That Tom could say this lightly was a reflection of how very much better Barard was getting. Tom had found it hard to talk about, even to their own families; they hadn’t seen Barard when he was first rescued, hadn’t sat alone in the dungeon cell. They had no real concept of what Barard had suffered in fear, privations and beatings, nor how he had been pushed to the edges of madness by his solitary confinement. 

‘Tom! Are you all right?’

Tom jumped. ‘Ye...es,’ he said, drawing a deep breath. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ He tilted his face up to the sun. How to make Hildimir understand? ‘All Barard saw of the sun for a year was a little strip of light on the ground _that_ wide.’ He held his thumb and forefinger apart to show Hildimir. ‘Mostly he was in complete darkness. Imagine being chained up in the Great Smials’ icehouse, your only contact someone to bring you food twice a day, but they don’t speak the common tongue. You have a pot to use as your toilet, but it isn’t cleaned, just emptied when it’s full. Imagine that you’ve been beaten and there’s no one to treat your wounds. They must fester or heal as they will. Imagine -’ 

‘Gentlemen! If you’ve finished slaking your thirst, there’s help needed raking up and stooking the corn.’ 

Was it his imagination, or did Hildimir look relieved at the interruption? Tom set down his mug, and flexed his fingers where he’d been gripping too tight. ‘Sorry, Melinas; we’ll get on to it.’ 

The old steward nodded. ‘It’s good to see you and young master Barard helping, sir, but there’s no doubt we need all the help we can get. We’ll be stopping for lunch in a couple of hours.’ 

Melinas had grown old in service to the Thains, and had never quite got to grips with the fact that Pippin’s children were not only of age, but getting on in years. Tom grinned inwardly at the “young master”. He wasn’t at all sure Barard should be continuing for another two hours, but he had learnt the hard way - through arguments - that he couldn’t make those decisions on Barard’s behalf. Even more than a year later, he still felt overly protective, but he was trying hard not to be so. He was reassured by the sight of Barard reaching the edge of the field, to be met by a small hobbit hung about with water skins. He watched Barard talk to the small lad, then tip back his head and drink deep. Good, at least he was drinking plenty of water; that fool Tobbold Banks was taking nips from a hip flask. Tom rolled his eyes at such foolishness. He didn’t like Tobbold at the best of times, and hoped he would succumb to the heat, the drink, or possibly both. 

For now, there was plenty to do. Hildimir clapped him on the back to get his attention away from Barard, and they worked together, making up sheaves, then leaning them against each other with the ears of corn uppermost: twelve sheaves to make a stook. Hildimir pushed back his hat and rubbed a hand across his forehead; the band had left a red indented line there, but it was the sweat he was rubbing away. ‘Barard loses his temper more easily since you came back,’ he observed; he replaced the hat and tapped it on the crown to wedge it more firmly onto his head. 

‘Not with me,’ answered Tom. 

‘That’s good, but he snapped at Ruby yesterday when she tried to do him a kindness.’ 

‘Kindness is relative, Hil. Ruby may have thought she was being kind, but Barard _didn’t._ What she said was as good as accusing him of being too feeble to help when you start the grape harvest.’

‘She just didn’t want him to feel he had to help, Tom. With this good weather, the grapes are sweetening fast; the harvest’s likely to go back to back with this one. It’s a tiring time of year, and you can’t tell me Barard isn’t worse when he’s tired. I know she could have phrased it better, but you know Ruby, and really, there was no excuse for Barard to storm out and slam the door behind him. It’s hard to be patient.’ 

‘Aye, and your patience riles him as much as anything. Don’t you realise that he’d prefer you to have this conversation with him, have you get mad at him and tell him he was way out of line.’ 

‘So _you_ told him, did you?’ Hildimir tapped the loose bundle of corn he held against the ground, as much as he could encompass in his arms, until the stalks of wheat were shaken into a neat sheaf to be expertly tied. Tom leaned on his rake. 

‘No, I don’t need to. He knows without me telling him. There’s no need for me to rub it in.’ 

‘There you are, then.’ 

‘Not the same. He knows I’ll have a blazing row with him if there’s the need.’ 

‘You? Have a blazing row with Barard? Now that I’d like to see.’ 

Tom laughed. It was an exaggeration on his part. He got angry, and Barard soothed; that had always been the way of things. It was only with others that Barard’s temper had become more frayed through the year, as the well-meaning things they said and - more to the point - the way they said them, rubbed at him like fine sandpaper. ‘Look, all I’m asking is that you start treating him like you always have, like he’s normal.’ 

‘But he’s _not_ normal, Tom. No, don’t get me wrong!’ Tom had halted, knuckles whitening on the rake. ‘I mean, he used to be so full of himself; a lot of the time we were just cutting him down to size, teasing him, that sort of thing. He’s different, now. Quieter, more serious. It’s hard to know what to talk to him about.’ 

‘If you teased him more, it would be good for him.’ 

Hildimir looked doubtful. ‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll try.’ 

They worked on, grateful for the break when a lad or lass brought them water. They talked about the approaching grape harvest and the prospects for a good vintage, about Tom’s family and Hildimir’s grandchildren. They were more than ready to eat when Faramir came to tell them lunch was ready in the shade of the trees. They walked with him across the field to where the draught ponies stood, with nosebags in place, flicking their tails at the flies that gathered around them. Barard was already there, being talked at by Tobbold. His back was to Tom, but Tom could tell he was tense, an unwilling party to the exchange - not that surprising, since Tobbold always pressed his attentions on Barard. The gathering for lunch was a peaceful scene, with hobbits lounging in the shade, taking their ease. Food was plentiful, but apart from water, drink was scarce. All knew the Thain would do them proud come evening, and that too much drink in the middle of the day led to befuddled heads and poor work. Of course, there were a few like Tobbold, nipping from their own flasks, but fights were rare because of the general sobriety. Tom was therefore not the only one taken by surprise when violence suddenly erupted, although to call it a fight was to overstate the case. It was almost entirely one-sided, short and to the point. 

Tom had just had drained the mug of water a lass handed him, when Tobbold caught his eye over Barard’s shoulder and leaned close to make some remark. Barard’s reply was angry. Tobbold stepped in, pushing Barard back a little. The retaliation was so fast it was hard to see what had happened; Tobbold doubled over, crowing for breath, and was floored by a well-judged blow to the back of his shoulders. 

‘What the...!’ Faramir, who was closest, slammed down his own drink and hauled Barard back. ‘What in the Fell Winter do you think you’re _doing?’_

Barard glared at the hobbit lying at their feet and fought against Faramir’s restraining arm. ‘Don’t you dare say such things about Tom!’ he shouted as Tobbold pushed himself up onto all fours and spat fine soil from his mouth. ‘You bloody prick! I’d like to see you risk your life for me in a strange country!’ 

Tom laid a hand on Barard’s arm; it was all that was needed. Faramir released his brother as soon as he stopped struggling, and with the help of one of the draymen pulled Tobbold to his feet. ‘Ugh,’ said Faramir. ‘You reek of whisky, Tobbold.’ 

‘What did he say?’ asked Tom quietly. 

‘He had the gall to call you a waster and a loser.’ Barard was so indignant that he had trouble keeping his voice down. 

Faramir burst into laughter. ‘We’ll have you as the jester at the harvest-home supper, Tobbold,’ he said. ‘You have no idea, have you?’ 

‘No idea about what?’ asked Tobbold sullenly. ‘That Tolman tells fine tales, but he’s never done better than that pokey little hovel in Hobbiton.’ 

Barard growled, but Faramir held up a hand. ‘Peace, brother.’ He was still laughing as he turned back to Tobbold. ‘I don’t know why I’m even bothering to answer you, but when I was in Minas Tirith with the mayor, we were asked to help oversee our brothers’ business interests. The trustee they’d appointed thought it only right, since we ourselves were trustees under the terms of their wills.’ 

Tobbold shrugged out of the drayman’s hold and yawned; the action was exaggerated, a pantomime of boredom, and any sympathy he might have had from the onlookers was lost at this rudeness to their Thain.

‘In brief, then,’ said Faramir. ‘If Barard and his good friend, Tolman Gardner, live without ostentation, it’s from choice. Tom is a very wealthy hobbit. If you call his home in Hobbiton a hovel, I can only assume you have never been inside.’ 

‘Too right,’ muttered Barard. 

‘I have no wish to hear any guest of mine insulted - especially not Tom - and I have no wish to see a drunkard let loose with a scythe. I will therefore dispense with your help this afternoon, Tobbold. If you see fit to apologise to Tom, and to myself, and leave all alcohol behind, your help tomorrow will be welcomed.’ 

‘Pah!’ Tobbold turned away, his response as short as it was expressive. Tom decided against calling out to recommend petticoats for flouncing better; he was fairly sure that Faramir had not finished with Barard, and levity on his part would probably bring a well-remembered tirade down upon them both: _‘You two think you’re very funny, don't you?’_

He was right that Faramir had more to say to his youngest brother. The Thain watched Tobbold out of hearing, and then rounded on Barard. ‘That was a disgraceful display,’ he said angrily.

‘Nah,’ a voice with a strong Tuckborough accent piped up from somewhere in the gathering. ‘Right good, it were.’ There was a general laugh, and Tom was almost certain he saw a twitch of amusement on Faramir’s features, quickly suppressed. Tobbold was generally thought to come to the harvest only for his place at the harvest-home supper, one of the great social events of the Shire calendar, and he had never been seen to push himself hard, even when storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. 

‘I mean it, Barard,’ said Faramir, when the laughter died down. ‘Just because Tobbold is an arsehole -’ 

Barard muttered something, making a face as though he had sucked a lemon. 

‘What?’ 

‘Faramir, he’s always propositioning me.’ Barard was getting angry again. ‘It’s too hot, and I’d had enough, all right? Insulting Tom was just the final straw, and he had a lot more to say about Tom that I’m not going to repeat.’ He glared at his brother. ‘And is that where you think Tom’s worth lies? In his _wealth?’_

‘Actually, no. Although that’s probably what Tobbold understands best. I think Tom’s worth lies in his loyalty and bravery, and in his putting up with you all these years.’ 

There was some laughter at that, and some scattered applause. ‘Mr. Tom’s a good’un,’ someone called. 

Barard caught Tom’s hand and twisted it palm up to show a scar. ‘You’re not the only one who thinks so, Ted Flaxman. Tom is blood-bonded to one of the highest lords in Harad, and has been honoured by the Southron king for his bravery, before all the Haradrim.’ 

Tom felt his face heat in embarrassment. ‘Barard,’ he hissed: a plea to shut up. 

‘Come now, Mr. Barard. Tell us the story, do.’ Tom couldn’t see who the speaker was, but Faramir held up his hand.

‘Not now, Bert. I know my brother too well. He seeks to distract from the purpose, which is that he showed violence to one of my tenants. Barard?’ He held Barard’s gaze until Barard dropped his eyes to the ground. In Tom’s opinion, Faramir was one of only a very few people, including King Elessar, who could do that, and he schooled his face to stop the smile that was trying to break out. This was Faramir treating Barard as he had always done, and Barard wasn’t liking it. _Be careful what you wish for,_ Tom thought.

‘I’m sorry, Faramir. Please don’t make me apologise to Tobbold.’ 

‘No, I’ll not do that - as long as you behave from now on, eh?’ 

Barard nodded, and released Tom’s hand to take Faramir by surprise with a hug. They were of a height, although Faramir was much broader across the shoulders, and his return hug engulfed Barard and almost lifted him from his feet. Tom stopped trying to suppress his smile, and grinned broadly, despite the tears that prickled at his eyes. It was a poignant reminder of their exhausted arrival in Minas Tirith, to be met with crushing hugs from their eldest brothers, and the news that Pippin was dying. Maybe the same thought had occurred to Barard, because suddenly he was sobbing in his brother’s arms, while Faramir held him tight and rubbed slow circles over his back. Tom waited patiently beside them, grateful that the hobbits around them had melted away. A grown hobbit crying was a family matter, and the Tuckborough workers obviously respected that. 

Hildimir leaned close to whisper, ‘You see? That’s where treating him normally gets us.’ 

‘Good,’ said Tom shortly. ‘It’s what he needs.’

Barard was subdued all through lunch, but he smiled his quiet pleasure when Melinas congratulated him on his scything. His fellow workers added their ‘Ar, ar,’ of approval, a sound peculiar to Tuckborough, meaning anything from a greeting to general agreement with sentiments expressed. 

‘I thought I’d have forgotten,’ said Barard. 

‘Yew don’t never,’ replied one ancient in a battered straw hat. ‘It just take a few swings, and it all do come back.’ 

‘Ar, ar,’ agreed his companions.

They worked hard all afternoon, and well into the early evening. Supper was a good solid meal of stew and dumplings, and afterwards Barard sat leaning against Tom, drinking cider and staring into the campfire. It was late enough in the year that the sky had already darkened, a backdrop to a myriad stars. Tom tucked his arm around Barard’s waist and kissed the top of his head. Somewhere a cricket was chirping rhythmically, a sound of summer evenings. 

‘Now then, a story afore yew goes off with a flash ‘n’ a bang, like that there mad Baggins,’ called a gaffer, and both Tom and Barard laughed. 

‘Aye, tell us a tale from the south.’ 

‘Is it true they’re as brown as walnut juice?’ 

‘How’d yew come t’ hobnob with lords and kings, Tom?’ 

‘Unsanit’ry, I calls it. Mixing blood with a savage.’ 

Tom sighed and rubbed the scar on his palm. ‘They aren’t savages. They’re a very great people. I once told Lord Faros that he treated me like a brother, and he came to me the next day and asked me if I would make it a blood bond. I was doubtful at first. They take it very seriously. It means that his friends are my friends, but also that his enemies are mine, as well. Harad has a long, bloody history of fighting with Gondor, although they are at peace now, but who knows what the future holds? I was worried... well, about enmity with King Elessar, but he pointed out that if Elessar was my friend, then he couldn’t be an enemy to my blood brother.’ Tom smiled at the memory. ‘We made the bond in the presence of their king. I was very honoured.’ 

‘That’s what yew meant, were it, young Barard?’ asked another old gaffer. ‘Yew said he were honoured by that there king. Like old times, in’t it? Hobbits hobnobbing wi’ kings and such, but your dads were great ones for that.’ 

Barard pushed himself upright and sat cross-legged, facing the circle of Tuckborough worthies. ‘I meant at the coronation of their new king, Sûlos, when Tom was awarded for his bravery.’ He glanced at Tom, and grinned. Tom rolled his eyes. ‘Tom didn’t know. They let me in on the secret, because they wanted me to make sure he was at the ceremony. He stopped the king’s enemies’ signalling for help, and was badly wounded doing so. I thought... I thought he might die.’ Barard fell silent and gazed into the fire. 

Tom looked at Barard, wanting to hug him. He cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t, though.’ There was a general laugh, and the conversation around them moved on to Shire gossip. Tom would liked to have believed that their fellow hobbits were being tactful, but the truth was they probably weren’t interested in hearing about the Order of Aquilmos. For him, it had been hugely embarrassing, only made bearable by Barard’s shining eyes and the form the award had taken. Barard liked Tom to wear it on Highdays and holidays, and that was all right, since no one had commented on it; it had just been accepted as another example of Tom’s outlandish ways, like the three small gold rings that curled snugly around the edge of one ear. It was quite some time since anyone had even mentioned them, although there had been plenty said on the subject when he first returned to the Shire. 

‘Do you want to go?’ Tom asked quietly. Barard was sitting with his hands clasped tightly together in his lap, a sign of anxiety. Tom set down his drink and slipped one arm around Barard’s shoulders. He laid his free hand over Barard’s hands, rubbing soothingly with his thumb. ‘The moon will be up soon, there’ll be plenty of light to walk back to Great Smials.’ Most of the assembled hobbits would ride back in the harvest carts. 

The fiddler had started up with a tune, and all around them voices sang the well-known words. Barard took a deep breath. ‘No. We can stay, unless you want to go. Just a few memories I’d rather not have, that’s all, but we don’t get a lot of choice over those, do we? Some lusty singing is probably just what I need.’ Tom watched him pull himself together, and when the next song started, Barard joined in. 

The moon edged above the trees in the east, large and round and golden: the harvest moon, the full moon closest to the equinox. In Minas Tirith and Hafar, they would be gazing on the same moon. Tom was silent as the fiddler moved through a repertoire of old Shire favourites. He was beginning to get edgy, a feeling that had been coming on for the past few weeks as the swallows congregated in larger and larger groups, alighting in lines strung out along barn roofs. The birds would be leaving soon, heading south to Harad. Tom had not spent so long at a stretch in the Shire since he came of age over twenty years ago. The slow pace of life had been very restful to start with, but now, faced with the repeating cycle of the year that Yule would bring, he was itching to be gone. A visit to Harad was out of the question - Barard was not ready for that - but soon Tom would broach the subject of returning to Minas Tirith. Maybe tonight, when they were alone. 

There was a lull in the singing as the fiddler took a rest and downed a well-earnt pint. Tom slid his arm down to Barard’s waist again, and Barard shifted to settle comfortably against Tom. The fiddler put down his pint pot with a sigh of appreciation and took up his fiddle again. He tuned it and started idly picking out a dance tune, waiting for someone to lead in with another song. Tom smiled up at the stars and took up the challenge, his voice as deep and rich as his father’s. It wasn’t a Shire song, and the fiddler let him sing the first verse and chorus through, unaccompanied apart from shouts of laughter at the apposite words.

 _I’ve been a wild rover for many a year,_  
_And I’ve spent all my money on whisky and beer,_  
_But now I’m returning with gold in great store,_  
_And I never will play the wild rover no more._  


_And it’s no, nay, never_  
_No, nay, never, no more,_  
_Will I play the wild rover_  
_No, never, no more._  


Barard added his voice, and the fiddler picked up the tune, pushing the pace along.

 _I went to an alehouse I used to frequent_  
_And I told the landlady my money was spent._  
_I asked her for credit, she answered me nay_  
_For ‘tis custom like yours can be had any day._  


_And it’s no, nay, never_  
Everyone was singing the chorus now.  
_No, nay, never, no more,_  
_Will I play the wild rover_  
_No, never, no more._  


_I took from my pocket ten gold coins bright_  
_And the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight._  
_She said, "I have whiskey and wines of the best_  
_And the words that I spoke, they were only in jest.”_  


The chorus was roared out with enthusiasm. Mugs of cider and beer swung in time to the music, and were lifted high on the long “plaaaay”, to sweep back down again with much slopping of contents on “rover”. 

_I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done_  
_And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son._  
_And if they forgive me as ofttimes before_  
_Then I never will play the wild rover no more._  


Back into the chorus again, and the audience had got the hang of the four rapid beats of stamping at the end of the first line.

 _And it’s no, nay, never_ (Stamp - stamp - stamp - stamp)  
_No, nay, never, no more,_  
_Will I play the wild rover_  
_No, never, no more._  


There was much applause and laughter as Tom and Barard finished. Hildimir clapped Barard on the back, and handed him another pint of cider. ‘Well sung, bro! Is it true, now?’ 

Barard took a deep pull at the drink. ‘I doubt whoever wrote it gave up their roving ways,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It gets into your very bones, somehow. It’s good to be home, but the call’s getting stronger to be away.’ 

Tom smiled into his mug. So, Barard felt it, too. ‘Aye,’ he said quietly. ‘I think we’ll be off soon.’ 

_**Minas Tirith, Urimë FA 79 (SR 1500)** _

Tom threw the letter from Hanril onto the bed and scowled at it. As though to protect itself from his ire, the paper instantly rolled up.

‘So,’ said Barard, eyebrow raised at Tom’s bad temper. ‘Do you know it off by heart now? You’ve read it how many times?’

‘Why couldn’t he just say who’s coming!’ 

Barard picked up the letter and smoothed it out. _“I cannot say yet who will be trusted with this emissary from King Sûlos, but I do not doubt it will be someone of rank.”_ Well, there you go. Oh, look! There’s some small writing on the back. _“Do not tell Tom: I withhold this information because I know it will tease him so!”_

‘What!’ Tom looked at Barard’s smirk. ‘Oh, stop it, you idiot!’

Barard put an arm around Tom’s shoulders. ‘Does it really matter, love? We’ll find out soon enough.’

‘But if it’s a friend, we should ride down to the Harlond to meet them off the ship. We’ll have time. The lookout said that the ship was making way slowly up the Anduin, rowing against the tide, and there’s only a light wind to help them.’

‘If we go to the Harlond - I’m quoting you here - and some stranger disembarks, we’ll risk not being invited to join them, and _then,_ by the time we get back to the city, we’ll have no chance of getting a decent position in the Court of the White Tree to watch Elessar receive them.’

‘Why couldn’t Hanril have sent another letter when he knew? If it’s Faros -’

‘He would have, if he could. You know how meticulous Hanril is in all things. Maybe he sent it, and it’s gone astray; maybe the first vessel to leave was the one they’re on.’ Barard slipped his other arm around Tom’s waist and pulled him into an embrace. ‘If it _is_ Faros, then I promise I won’t stand in your way. Of course, he’s a married man, but the Harad custom of a harem -’

 _‘You_ are in so much trouble!’ Tom was trying hard not to laugh; Barard would just look smug at having lifted his mood, which was no more than the product of his anxiety and excitement. If Faros was not amongst the first Harad embassy to Minas Tirith, Tom was going to be very disappointed. Catos, he knew, was away campaigning, and anyway, Sûlos would not send such a young man to represent him before Elessar. Tarlos or Yanos, maybe? No, not Yanos. If Catos was away, then so was his commander. 

His laughter vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘It’s been three years,’ he whispered. Three years of letters through the intermediacy of Hanril, because although Tom spoke Southron fluently, he could neither read nor write the Haradrim script. 

Barard hugged him tight. ‘I know, love. It’s time we paid a visit. Past time, but I know you’ll forgive me for that. Would you like to go, when this emissary returns to Harad?’

‘Nothing to forgive, and I’m not going if you mean you’d stay here.’

Barard nuzzled his ear, nipping and licking at the rings that studded it. ‘Let me rephrase, then.’ His voice was quiet, no trace of the earlier bantering tone. ‘Would you like _us_ to go?’

‘Truly?’

‘Yes, of course, truly. You don’t think I’d joke about that, when I know how much you want to go back.’

‘Oh, Barard.’

‘Bollocks, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ 

Tom sniffed. ‘I’m not really crying, you pillock.’

‘No. And I’m not really a pillock.’

‘You are a pillock.’

‘Well, all right, granted. But I’m your pillock, and that has to count for something.’

‘A pillock of the community.’

Barard pressed his hips against Tom. ‘An _upstanding_ pillock of the community.’

‘Mmmm. Soooo you are.’ Tom suddenly realised what he would have realised before, had he not been so on edge: Barard was wearing only a shirt, if “wearing” was the right word when not a button was fastened. He slipped his hands beneath the light cotton and stroked down Barard’s back, kneading a little at the curve of his rump. There was a knock at their door, making them both jump. Barard sighed and released Tom, but Tom slid to his knees to smile up at Barard. ‘Go away!’ he called.

‘But sir!’ the young voice of their servant was muffled through the door.

‘Targon, go away.’

‘I have a message from the King.’

‘Can it wait five minutes?’ Tom grinned as Barard rolled his eyes.

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Good, then go away.’

Barard stroked Tom’s upturned face. ‘Five minutes?’

‘Easy.’

‘You think?’

‘I know.’ 

Tom found the action of his hand and tongue very calming; he knew every trick to push Barard to release, and he used them. Barard spread his legs wider with a whimper and pressed into Tom’s hold. ‘You... smart arse,’ he managed, and then he was coming, his legs shaking, his fingers wound tightly into Tom’s hair.

Tom swallowed and gave Barard’s cock a last swirl with his tongue, eliciting a sensitised twitch. He sat back on his heels to smile up at Barard’s flushed face. Barard lowered himself to kneel across Tom’s thighs, and pulled Tom into a kiss that was only interrupted by another knock at the door. Barard made to rise, but Tom held him a moment longer. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.

Barard raised an eyebrow. ‘I think courtesy dictates that I thank you.’

‘Thank you for suggesting we go to Hafar.’

‘I wish I’d suggested it sooner.’ Barard ruffled Tom’s hair as he stood. He grabbed a robe to swing around his shoulders, and by the time he reached the door he had shrugged the robe on and pulled the belt tight. He swung the door open just as Targon was bringing his knuckle down to knock again. 

‘Careful, lad,’ said Barard, reaching up to steady him by the elbow.

‘Thank you, sir. Here’s the letter, sir. It has the king’s seal on it, and everything.’ Targon had not got used to the fact that his employers moved in such exalted circles, and was clearly overawed to be even holding a letter from the king.

Barard broke the seal and started to read. Tom came to peer over his shoulder, but was only a third of the way down, mouthing the words to himself, when Barard lifted his head. ‘Thank you, Targon. There’s no reply needed. We’ll be dining with the king tonight. Finish what needs to be done, and take the rest of the day off. They’ll be some fireworks later.’

‘Fireworks, sir?’

_‘The finest rockets ever seen; they burst in stars of blue and green.’_

’Sir?’

‘Never mind. Something Samwise the Gardener once wrote. We’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to cheer the Haradrim; they may be friends of ours.’ Barard shut the door after Targon and laughed. ‘Fireworks! I love fireworks!’

 _‘After thunder golden showers come falling like a rain of flowers.’_ Tom completed his da’s small tribute to Gandalf, and rested a hand on Barard’s shoulder, feeling the excitement like a fine tremor. It was probably true to say that he enjoyed Barard’s delight in fireworks even more than the fireworks themselves. Once, in the Shire, they’d found a secluded vantage point and made love to the accompaniment of the crashing explosions of rockets, the very ground shaking beneath them. Barard had lain under Tom, his eyes reflecting the rain of flowers falling like a curtain around them, until his eyelids had drifted closed and he had shuddered his release. 

Now, Barard stroked his cheek. ‘You’re looking happier, love.’

Tom nodded. He was feeling happier. Bringing Barard to release, the knowledge that he would soon be seeing Hafar again, and his memories, had all combined to lift the tension from him. He still hoped Faros was on the boat, but he was no longer wound tight with the anxiety that he might not be. ‘I think we should get ready, and then find a good vantage point in the court.’

‘Are you sure you want me to try doing this?’ asked Barard doubtfully as he picked up some strands of gold thread.

‘If it doesn’t come out right, you can undo it, so it’s worth a try,’ said Tom. ‘It’ll help me look the part.’

‘And that’s important because?’

There was a whole swirl of reasons, and Tom had to think before he could pick them out. ‘Well, to honour our visitors - that’s one reason - but if it’s Faros, I don’t want to look too different from when he last saw me.’ He sighed. ‘And then there’s an undercurrent of anti-Haradrim feeling in the city. There are a lot of soldiers here who fought them, and they can’t grasp that things are different.’

‘“The only good Haradrim are dead Haradrim.”’

‘Exactly.’

‘Sit down then, and I’ll see what I can do.’ 

Tom fidgeted as Barard separated his hair into strands and plaited in the gold threads, but in the end they both agreed it didn’t really work with Tom’s thick curls. Barard compromised by weaving the gold thread into one small braid. Tom shucked off his clothes. He hesitated, then threw off his drawers. To wear them under the traditional Hafarian dress seemed wrong, like having a Hafarian pastry for breakfast and spreading marmalade on it - a clash of cultures. He reached for the light cloth, wound it about himself, and expertly tied the ends. Suddenly he wasn’t dressing as a Southron, he _was_ a Southron. He pulled on the blue-edged dress he had worn to the coronation of Sûlos, and topped that with a blue robe with wide, loose sleeves. 

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ said Barard. He held up a gold necklace from which hung three eagle feathers. Green emeralds caught the light on either side. ‘You should wear this.’ He teased at one of the feathers, neatening the barbs, and then slipped the gold around Tom’s neck. ‘There.’ He stepped away, admiring the effect. ‘My Aquilmos is back.’

By the time they set out, the main way to the seventh circle gate was lined with people, and every window was being used as a vantage point. There were some exclamations at the sight of Tom in such strange attire, and some jeers and catcalls. Tom minded only in as much as it reflected the mood of at least some of the crowd. He hoped the ambassador was someone with patience and understanding. 

At the entrance to the citadel, the guards stood blocking the way with spears, their height made greater by the tall mithril helms that dazzled the eye. Only those with some reason to enter were being allowed through to the Court of the White Tree. Barard showed the letter from Elessar, and the guards withdrew their spears to allow the Halflings passage through the high arching gate. Tom did not miss the fact that Barard glanced at the road that led to Fen Hollin, his father’s resting place.

The King’s marshal appeared before them, to guide them to join a group of dignitaries. Even with restricted entry, there was a great throng of people waiting in the wide court, and many turned to stare at the Halflings as they skirted the White Tree. The doors to the Tower Hall were open, and before them stood two high-backed thrones. Guards of the Tower were lined up on either side of the court, their black surcoats embroidered with the livery of the heirs of Elendil. It would be warm work, standing there unmoving in their tall, close-fitting helms. 

‘You will wait here,’ said the Marshal, looking flustered and hot, and talking to the group of dignitaries as a whole. ‘When the king has greeted the visitors, and the initial pleasantries are over, they will enter the hall for the reception, followed by their respective guards. You may enter behind them. There will be drinks and light refreshments. Afterwards, the Southrons will be given time to rest before the banquet, which will be held in the palace. The king will not tolerate any display of ill feeling towards his guests.’ As he bustled away, Tom looked around. He recognised most of those who waited: important burghers of the city, with their wives. One of them, a man Tom had never liked, sneered down at him. 

‘So, it is true that you went native when you lived with the savages,’ he said.

‘And so gained an advantage that we can only envy him,’ said another, a good friend. ‘Is this what the Haradrim wear, Tom?’

A third man broke in. ‘You mean, when they aren’t fighting us?’

Tom answered only his friend, but for all to hear. ‘The Haradrim are many people, Braldir. Those of the ruling city of Hafar wear clothes like this. There are good men and fools, in Hafar as here.’ He turned to the front. The courtyard looked like an ants’ nest that had been turned over by a spade, with courtiers rushing here and there. Presumably they knew what they were about, but the appearance they gave was of chaos. A horn sounded from far below, and the courtiers fled, to gather beside the battlements that crowned the great bastion of stone. 

Nobles of Gondor appeared from within the Tower Hall, arrayed in fine velvets and silks, and walking leisurely to take their places around the thrones. First came Prince Eldarion and his royal sisters, followed by the princes of Ithilien - Boromir and Barahir, son and grandson of old Faramir - and the princes of Dol Amroth. After a few minutes, Elessar and Arwen Undomiel appeared. All present bowed as the king and queen took their seats. Elessar’s face was deeply lined, and his hair was greying around his temples. Tom had heard him claim the latter to be the result of having Halflings living in the city. Arwen, on the other hand, was a flawless being of grace and beauty, with no sign of ageing, unless it was in the depths of her eyes. 

Barard tapped Tom under the chin. ‘You’re doing your staring-at-the-queen-with-your-mouth-open thing again.’

Tom grinned sheepishly. ‘She’s very beautiful.’

‘Not my type. Too tall.’

They hastily stifled their laughter, because now guards were marching in from the gate. This was the Gondorian escort, and Tom shifted this way and that, trying to get a view. Once through the gate, the guards wheeled off to left and right, forming a guard of honour. Barard clutched Tom’s arm. ‘It is - it is!’ he hissed, and Tom nodded, too full of joy to speak. Faros had come! 

Faros did not look around, but kept his eyes upon the seated king and queen. His robe, over his white dress, was a deep ruby-red, and he wore a gold collar around his neck. He had a small entourage with him, amongst them, Hanril. A company of Haradrim soldiers brought up the rear. Close behind Faros walked another man - a personal guard, perhaps, since he was the only one wearing a sword, apart from the soldiers. He was a young man, taller even than Faros, dressed in the style of the southern Haradrim, with close-fitting tunic and trousers, and high boots. Around his neck hung a necklace identical to the one Tom wore. Whoever he was, he had been honoured for bravery. All Tom could see was his profile. Whatever had left the scar that ran from temple to cheekbone, it must have narrowly missed taking his eye. Tom scanned the rest of the Haradrim, and almost laughed out loud as he realised that the small guard was comprised of those who had travelled with him to meet Legolas and Prince Barahir; some had also been of the company that rescued Barard. 

Barard nudged him, and Tom realised he was missing the Haradrim being greeted by Elessar and Arwen. Hanril stood forward, making introductions. Nothing could be heard of the words, but he indicated Faros and the man with the scar, who both bowed Gondorian fashion. Elessar bowed his head, but there seemed to be some hiatus. Faros spoke to Hanril, and glanced around for the first time. Tom guessed he was seeing a confused blur of faces. He wondered how Faros was feeling. He knew what it was like to be in a strange country, where words made no sense and everything looked strange. Hanril translated for the king, who laughed and nodded. He beckoned his steward close and gave him some instruction. The steward made his way to where Tom stood. 

‘Tolman, son of Samwise, the king requests your presence as interpreter for the Lords of Harad.’ 

Tom glanced at Barard, who simply gave him a little push. _Go!_ Tom went, trying to look dignified as he followed the steward, and just managing to restrain himself from running in his excitement. Faros! He only just remembered to bow to Elessar and Arwen first. 

‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Elessar. ‘Take a moment to greet your friends, and then we will continue.’

With beating heart, Tom turned to the Haradrim. Hanril gave him a wide smile. The next moment, Faros had knelt on one knee, arms held open, and Tom threw himself into a hug that lifted him off his feet. There was a murmur of laughter from the crowd.

‘Faros! Faros! It’s so good to see you!’

‘As it is to see you, my small brother. Our news must wait, but you will speak for me before the king, yes?’

‘Of course I will!’ 

Faros smiled and stood, stepping aside to allow the other man to come forward. Only then did Tom register the plural of the king’s words. _Friends!_ He stared up into a grave face, and watched lips twitch in amusement. 

‘I told you he would not recognise you,’ said Faros. ‘You were a boy when he left.’

‘I was not!’ 

Faros laughed at Tom’s expression. ‘Ah, now his eyes widen. Your voice, he knows!’

‘Catos? _Catos!’_

Catos went down on one knee as Faros had done, and hugged Tom close. Tom burrowed into the embrace. They clung together, not speaking, until Faros spoke quietly. ‘Catos, Tolm, we must continue. We will find time together later, yes?’

Tom pulled away and rubbed tears from his eyes. Faros had one hand on Catos’s shoulder, and it was a moment before the young man rose and took a deep breath. They all three turned to Elessar and Arwen.

Faros bowed. ‘I thank you for your courtesy in allowing us this favour,’ he said. There was a silence. Hanril gave a small cough, and Catos nudged Tom, who suddenly remembered why he was there. He translated a little slowly, since he understood in Southron, and had to take a moment to put the words into his own tongue. 

Elessar smiled at Faros. ‘You have pleased the crowd.’

Faros looked at Tom in concern as he heard the translation. ‘Is your king annoyed? Does he think we wanted you with us to make the people think more kindly of us? I swear -’

‘Peace, Faros. He is amused.’

‘What does he say, Tom?’

‘My lord Elessar, he is worried you might believe our greeting no more than a strategy.’

‘Reassure him; there was no false note, but genuine joy at the reunion of friends.’

Tom translated, and Faros held out his right hand, palm to the king.

‘Tolman is my brother; his friends are my friends.’

Even before Tom had finished speaking, Elessar stood to take the proffered hand in a firm grasp. ‘We have heard much of you, Lord Faros. We are greatly pleased to meet you.’ There was some scattered cheering from the crowd. 

In Tom’s view, everything that usefully needed to be said had been said, but words followed words, with speeches of welcome that tested his ability to translate. In the end, he settled for giving the flavour of each speech. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Elessar raise one eyebrow, as a long flowery oration from the Chief Guildsman was rendered into two short sentences. 

By the time they’d finished, Tom’s throat felt dry from all the talking, and he was longing for Barard’s presence, to share the joy he felt. At last it was time to move into the Tower Hall for some much-needed refreshment. Barard caught up with them as they reached the end of the corridor, and his meeting with Faros and Catos held up all movement into the hall for several minutes. The press of people behind meant that there was no opportunity to talk, and once in the hall, it was even harder to have a private conversation. Faros and Catos were in demand, and Hanril and Tom were both kept busy translating. It was not until the steward came forward to guide the Haradrim to their guest rooms that the chance came.

Even when they had followed the steward across the courtyard to the palace, it was a while before they could get rid of him. A fussy man at the best of times, he was determined to make sure the foreign nobles had everything they needed. The king had given Faros and Catos a suite of rooms with two large bedrooms, a sitting room, and a small servant’s quarter. Tom curtailed the steward’s directions to the palace baths. 

‘I can show them,’ he said. ‘And if they’d rather, I’ll ask the servants to bring a bath here.’ Barard held the door open in a pointed manner, and finally the steward took the hint and left. 

Faros eased down into a deep armchair with a sigh. There was a silence, in which they all smiled at each other rather foolishly. Tom didn’t know where to start. ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You’re married, Faros.’ It seemed so unlikely, and the letter had said little beyond _‘I know you will be happy to hear that I am married.’_ Instead, Tom had been saddened.

Catos rolled his eyes. ‘Sûlos insisted.’

‘What!’ Tom knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Barard had pointed out that it was likely a political alliance.

‘You make it sound as though he forced me, Catos,’ said Faros quietly. ‘He asked me to, and I could not in all conscience refuse my king, but don’t make Tom believe that I was somehow coerced into the union.’ He turned to Tom. ‘She’s the daughter of the lord who was displaced by the reversion of his lands to the House of the Sun. He was offered an estate, a place on the king’s council, and an advantageous marriage for his daughter. Had I refused, Sûlos would probably have taken her into his harem.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not a marriage of love, I don’t have to explain that to you, but I like her well enough, and the House of the Sun needs heirs.’

Barard perched on the arm of a chair and looked up at Catos. ‘What about you? Sûlos find wife for you?’

Catos grinned. ‘Me? I think I have a few years’ grace, and my brother is already showing a way with the girls, despite his tender years. Maybe he will provide me with an heir.’

‘You’re looking well,’ said Tom. ‘Both of you.’ There was almost a glow about them, but probably the same could be said of himself, he felt so happy to be with them. ‘I can’t believe how you’ve grown and changed, Catos.’ He eyed the scar. ‘That must have been a nasty wound.’

‘A charge against the Khand. The man who gave it to me didn’t live to try again. Anyway, it had its uses.’

‘Its uses?’ Tom had no idea what Catos could mean.

Catos stood behind the chair where Faros was seated, and laid his hands on Faros’s shoulders, kneading a little. ‘It brought Faros racing to my side; I’ve never seen him in such a panic.’

Faros relaxed back into the touch. ‘I was not in a panic. The message was quite clear: you were not in any real danger.’

‘Really? Well, no one could believe how quickly you made the journey from Hafar.’ Catos smiled down at Faros for a moment, a soft smile that left Tom dizzy with awareness. ‘It gave me the courage to stop being patient, anyway.’ He met Tom’s gaze. ‘So next time I was on leave -’

‘I woke up and found him in my bed.’

‘And invited him to stay?’ suggested Tom; the small signs that they were lovers were so obvious that he was surprised he hadn’t noticed before. The way they looked at each other, touched each other - the indefinable air of happiness.

Faros gave a huff of laughter. ‘No, I threw him out.’

‘You - ?’ Tom was confused. He looked at Barard to see if any help could be had there.

‘Well, are they or aren’t they?’ asked Barard in Westron.

‘They are, I think.’

Catos slid his hands down over Faros’s chest, a very possessive gesture. ‘I told him I only had one love and that was him, and if he didn’t love me, to say so, and I’d never ask again.’

‘Risky,’ said Tom. 

Catos nodded. ‘But you didn’t see him when I was wounded. I needed him to admit that he loved me.’

Faros tilted his head up to Catos. ‘I love you,’ he said quietly.

Catos kissed his forehead. ‘I know, I knew - you don’t really think I’d have...’ He glanced at Tom, and cleared his throat. ‘Well, never mind. I knew.’ 

Tom swallowed past the lump in his throat. None of them had drunk much at the reception, but he was so happy, he felt as though he were drunk on the finest Lebennin sparkling wine. His eyes fell on a bottle, standing in a clay vessel and packed around with melting ice from Mindolluin. ‘I think this calls for a drink,’ he said. His voice came out funny, and his vision was beginning to blur, but he didn’t care. 

Catos opened the wine, and the cork came out with a soft ‘pop.’ A faint mist curled from the bottle mouth. He poured carefully, letting the bubbles froth up in the glasses before he topped them up and handed them around. They were all on their feet now, all torn between laughing and crying at their reunion. The men knelt down to hobbit level, and four glasses clinked together in salutation. 

‘To peace and friendship,’ said Faros.

‘To loving and being loved,’ said Tom, and his free hand sought Barard’s. As Faros and Catos stood, Tom smiled up at them. ‘There’s something I want to ask you both: a favour.’

‘Tell us. You know we’d do anything for you, Tolm.’

‘I want you to kiss.’

Faros’s mouth dropped open, and Catos gave a snort of laughter. The next moment Faros was thumping Catos on the back as he choked in earnest. Catos waved a hand to say ‘enough’. 

‘I’m all right,’ he croaked, his eyes watering. ‘The bubbles came down my nose. That was a cruel thing to do, Tolm, when I’d just taken a mouthful.’

Faros gave Catos a final pat. ‘You’re joking, Tolm. Yes?’

‘No. I’m serious, although I’ll let Catos get his breath first.’

‘You want us to just kiss to order?’

’Yes. In the Shire, a couple have to kiss in front of friends and relations.’ Beside him Barard was laughing, probably at the expressions on the men's faces. 

‘Oh. I see. It is a Shi-er custom?’

Barard nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes. The shorter the kiss, the badder the omen for long, happy life together.’

Faros and Catos looked at each other doubtfully. Tom thought it was a good thing they didn’t know Barard very well; he could tell the most extravagant lies, and sound utterly sincere, even in a language he didn’t have mastery of.

‘But we’ve never... I mean, in front of anyone,’ said Catos. He looked down at Tom, and then shrugged. ‘But it’s not as though it’s a hardship.’ He lifted a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers down Faros’s cheek.

‘But -’ began Faros.

‘Shh, love. It’s Tolm and Barard who are asking.’ Catos pulled Faros close, and they each curled a hand at the other’s nape. Faros tilted his head up to meet Catos, and their mouths came together. They were a little self-conscious at first, but then Catos made a small sound in the back of his throat, and it seemed the hobbits were forgotten. 

Barard poured more wine and handed a glass to Tom. He raised an eyebrow. ‘A Shire custom?’ 

Tom shrugged and grinned. ‘That was a nice touch about the length of the kiss.’

‘They look good together, don’t they?’

‘Is it just me, or is it a little warm in here?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘They won’t be needing both bedrooms, will they?’

‘Bring the wine.’

‘We can take them to the baths afterwards.’

‘Good idea.’

Tom took one last look at Faros and Catos, happy beyond any words, and shut the bedroom door quietly behind himself. 

And while that is _The End,_ there is room for a little more. Click on to the next chapter for a bonus insert chapter that takes place between chapters 14 and 15…


	16. Chapter 16

Catos grasped the mane of his horse and swung himself down. He was feeling a little shaky. The idea to race with no saddle or reins had not been the cleverest when he‘d only been allowed back on a horse the day before. Still, he’d won. He laughed at his friends as they came riding up at speed and slithered to a halt past the improvised finish of the ancient cedar tree. He gestured to show they were all a bunch of wankers.

There were shouts and jeers, and the next moment he was in trouble as they set on him. Their horses were left to stand patiently, while Catos fought against the ignominy of being thrown in the river. Five to one: it was a losing battle, especially weakened as he still was. He flew through the air, shouting obscenities, and landed with a huge splash in the middle of the bathing pool. He surfaced, rubbed the water from his eyes, and struck out for the sandy beach. Damn. He would have trouble getting his boots dried and polished for inspection. His friends were still doubled over laughing on the river bank, and a little revenge was in order. Catos made a show of difficulty in getting to the shallows; he crawled a little way, coughing dramatically, and collapsed onto his back. The water lapped the side of his face. 

His friends’ approach was wary, but as Catos lay unmoving, they gathered round. 

‘Catos? Are you all right?’

‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s just fooling. Isn’t he?’

‘Catos?’ He was poked by a booted foot.

‘Oh, that’s good. The hero of the hour, and you’ve gone and drowned him!’

 _‘I_ drowned him!’

‘It was your idea, Marcos.’

Catos struck. He grabbed the ankle of the man who had poked him, and heaved. There was a curse and a splash. Ha! Catos rolled upright, water cascading off him, grabbed a second man, and threw himself back into the water. He would probably have had to be satisfied with this revenge, had not the two in the water decided this was grossly unfair. They ganged up with Catos against their erstwhile allies. After much yelling, none of them escaped a watery fate. 

They stood on the sandy beach and leaned on each other, shaking with laughter as they peeled off wet clothes. Marcos rolled his eyes. ‘Catos, stop giggling! Anyone would think you were a girl!’

‘He can be my girl, anytime.’

‘Yes, well, think again, Petrios,’ said Catos, sobering up. He had discovered that some men, even those who had girls or wives, were quite prepared to go with other men in the cavalry when they were far from home, and he wanted no part in it. It was not like his small friends, Tolm and Barard, who loved each other with an intensity that had left Catos feeling breathless; it was more like scratching an itch in the absence of a brothel.

‘I reckon our Catos is a virgin,’ teased Petrios.

‘Don’t be daft!’ said Marcos. ‘Didn’t you hear about the Lord Justice? Nearly foundered a horse getting here from Hafar when our little Catos was in such a bad way.’

‘He was my guardian,’ said Catos stiffly, ignoring the _little;_ that was an old joke. ‘Of course he was worried about me.’ He schooled his face not to show how happy that made him. 

‘Oh, come off it, Catos. The whole camp knows you’re lovers.’

‘What!’ Caught in the process of pulling his trousers off, Catos nearly fell over. They knew more than he did, then. 

‘First he bawls the commander out -’

‘What!’

‘Stop squawking, Catos. You sound like one of those gaudy birds in Hafar that can endlessly repeat a few words.’

‘But... he shouted at Lord Yanos? Why?’

‘For letting his precious lover-boy get injured, of course. It warmed our hearts to hear the commander get a taste of being on the receiving end of a good tongue lashing. And if we had any doubts, there were the tales from the sickroom.’

Catos swallowed. ‘What tales?’ 

‘Tales of how he behaved with you. There’s no point looking all innocent, Catos. A guardian doesn’t kiss his ward like that - and his ward doesn’t respond as though he’s just been given a long drink of water in the desert.’

‘I’m not his ward. Not now.’ Catos looked from man to man. ‘Stop laughing! It’s true! And you know that creep of an orderly tells lies about everyone.’

‘I rest my case,’ said Marcos. ‘He protests against being his ward, not his lover. There were other witnesses there, Catos.’ He frowned. ‘I think you might have told us. We are your friends.’ The others nodded their agreement.

‘There’s nothing to tell!’ _I wish there were._ His friends variously rolled their eyes or coughed their disbelief, but dropped the subject. Catos was relieved. To be thought to have what he desired above all things was like another wound added to the many he had recently recovered from.

They draped their clothes over shrubby bushes, and stuffed dried grass into their boots to help keep them in shape as they dried. That done, they turned their attention to their horses, rubbing them down, then letting them drink at the water’s edge. 

In the river they swam naked together, washing away sweat and grime, and there was not one of them without at least one scar to show for the many battles they had been in. As they finished, a group of new recruits arrived to use the pool, and Catos and his friends swaggered out to give the smaller fry a chance. Catos could hear the whispers. 

‘They’re officers.’ 

‘How d’you know? They’re stark naked!’ 

‘I’ve been serving in the officers’ mess. See that one, the tallest one with the scar on his face? _That’s_ Lord Catos.’ Eager eyes followed them, making Catos feel like a battle-scarred veteran. Officers they might be, but junior ones, and he was only eighteen, the youngest of his group of friends. 

They sat in the shade. Through the narrow band of trees, Catos could see the desert over which they had raced. In the distance, their camp shimmered in a haze of heat. He sighed and leaned back against a tree, the bark scratchy against his skin. He closed his eyes, thinking back to his bed in the hospital tent, more than a month before.

_He lay with his eyes closed - not comatosed, but in a strange state where he seemed to float. The activities around him had no bearing on himself, although he was aware that he ought to be feeling pain. A small part of his mind told him that he should be worried about the lack of sensation, but he wasn’t._

_‘Where is he?’ The voice was loud, but so welcome._

_‘Quietly, my lord. He sleeps.’_

_Catos wanted to say, “No. I’m awake,” but it was too much effort. He managed a sigh and rolled his head._

_‘Oh, Catos.’ It was a whisper. Something brushed across his forehead. A hand. ‘How long? The report said -’_

_‘This is the eleventh day, my lord.’_

_Catos grappled with that, and failed to make any sense of it. He’d led his men to the rescue of a group of infantry, cleaving through the enemy lines in an unstoppable charge, then wheeling to protect his fellow Haradrim. He could remember nothing more, except a vague memory of regrouping his men, but he was sure it had not been so long ago._

_‘But he’s in no danger? I was told there was no danger.’_

_‘That was before the fever, my lord.’_

_In his darkness, Catos felt himself lifted into arms that felt so right he sighed again and nestled close._

_‘Leave us.’_

_‘My lord?’_

_‘Leave us!’ The noise was too harsh, striking sparks that flared in painful brilliance behind Catos' eyes. He whimpered, and was gently rocked._

_‘Shhh, shhh. I’m sorry, love. I have you. You’re safe.’_

_If Faros was here, of course he was safe, but Catos couldn’t find the words. He raised a hand, curling fingers into soft fabric, wanting Faros to hold him close. Someone was weeping. Lips pressed against his in a gentle kiss._

_‘Don’t die, my love. I can’t bear it, not again.’_

‘Catos? _Catos!_ Wake up! It’s time we were going, or we’ll be late for inspection.’

Catos jumped, one hand flying out to his sword which wasn’t there. ‘Shit! Don’t do that!’ Heart thumping, he pushed up from the ground and dusted himself down. The others were already dressed.

‘You’d rather we left you here, and you got all leave cancelled?’

Catos didn’t bother to reply. He reached for his clothes. Marcos stepped close as the others mounted their horses. ‘Are you all right, Catos?’

‘Just tired.’

‘Damn, we’ve let you do too much. I’ll help you with your kit when we get back.’

‘Thank you. There really is nothing to tell - about Faros, I mean.’ 

‘No? Then I’ll wager there will be.’

By the time the inspection was called, Catos was ready. He pulled on his boots, the leather supple from all the grease he’d worked in with his fingers. Marcos had taken his armour and had done a good job; Catos' distorted reflection gazed back from the polished surface. He turned his head this way and that, looking at the scar that ran down the side of his face. It had lost its red and angry appearance, and he even forgot it was there sometimes. He raised his fingers and touched the skin around the stark line; the sensation was odd, almost painful. He strapped on his armour, pulled on his helmet plumed with horse hair, and fastened his ceremonial cloak at his shoulders. The cloak was green, signifying his junior officer status with his own cohort of men under his command. Senior officers wore red and commanded ten cohorts. It was likely to be many years before Catos could expect that honour, and he was very much afraid that his heroics might have damaged his chances. He had disobeyed an order given before the onset of battle in order to rescue the Haradrim foot soldiers. He touched the scar again; well, he had paid for that in other ways. 

He and Marcos examined each other critically. Marcos' cloak was not hanging right, and Catos tugged it until it fell neatly behind him in deep folds. ‘There. Let’s go.’ 

They clasped left hands in the cavalry man’s gesture of good luck. Inspections didn’t fall often, thankfully, but they were a trial, and the Master at Arms was a tyrant. Men and horses would come under his eagle eye, and the smallest speck of dirt would be noticed. They separated outside their tent, to join their own men. Catos looked his cohort over and nodded approval. His horse was held ready, and he swung up into the saddle. A nudge of his heels was all that was needed to bring his mare forward into position. He didn’t really need to look back to check his men were drawn up neatly behind him, but he did anyway. Some of his fellow officers had trouble with insubordination, but Catos considered himself lucky: his men rarely gave trouble. He smiled at them. ‘Good. Petos, get your horse further back in line. Matos, you can sit straighter than that! That’s better. If we pass muster, I’ll buy you all a drink.’ 

Catos turned to face the front again, and sat unmoving as the Master at Arms came walking round them. Officers were not exempt from his sharp eye. The man tapped Catos on the boot to signify he should stretch his leg forward in the stirrup, and Catos was thankful that his saddle was as clean behind the stirrup leathers as elsewhere. 

‘You have a well turned out cohort, Lord Catos.’ Praise indeed. ‘Lord Yanos commands you to attend him in his tent after the inspection.’ 

No answer was expected, and the Master at Arms stalked on to terrorise the next cohort. Catos bit his lip. There were only two reasons that Yanos would want to see him officially: commendation or reprimand. He had no idea which it was to be, but he feared it was the latter. Yanos had visited him in the field hospital, but he had come as a concerned friend. Now Catos was back on active service, it would be as a commander that Yanos would review his actions, and Catos knew there would be no favouritism.

The inspection ended, and they were dismissed. Catos turned in his saddle. ‘Well done, men. I’ll stop by and get you that drink after I’ve seen the commander.’

‘Will there be trouble, sir?’

‘Very likely, Matos.’ He dismounted and handed his reins over. ‘I’ll see you all later.’

‘Good luck, sir.’ It was a murmured chorus of support. 

Catos strode through the camp to Yanos' tent, and was announced by a servant. The tent was frugally furnished, although there was a certain amount of comfort. Yanos sat at a large desk, writing reports, his favourite sight-hound at his feet. He stoppered the ink and threw down his quill as Catos entered and bowed. 

‘My lord. You wished to see me?’ 

Yanos acknowledged him with a nod and leaned back in his chair. ‘Thank you, Lord Catos; you are very prompt. I thought you’d like to know that I recommended you for the Order of Aquilmos. I heard today that the king accepts my recommendation.’

‘Sir?’ Catos didn’t think he’d heard right.

‘You’ll be presented with the award next month in Hafar.’

Catos tried to think of something more sensible to say. ‘Thank you, sir.’ _The Order of Aquilmos!_

‘You don’t look very convinced, my lord.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just... I thought I’d be in trouble.’ A raised eyebrow prompted him to add, ‘For disobeying orders, sir.’

Yanos leaned forward, hands together on the desk, and held Catos' gaze. ‘You were ordered to dislodge the enemy from the high ground. Instead, you led a charge that broke the attack threatening a large company of our infantry who were leaderless. I have been reliably informed that they were in danger of being decimated. In doing so, I understand you received the wound near your eye. Despite the fact you were bleeding profusely, you took command of the infantry and sent them to make pretence of a disorderly retreat. Would you agree so far?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The Khand were drawn from their defensive position by your ruse, and were then caught between your cohort and the infantry. Probably as a result of your wound, you were either unable to see, or unable to respond to, an attack against yourself, and were cut down. Your men rallied to your defence and carried you from the field, but the damage to the Khand army was done. Do you disagree with this account?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. I have it from many witnesses. Tell me, would you do the same again?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Yanos nodded. ‘Good man. You used your head, Catos. There are two hundred men who owe you their lives, and you turned the situation to your advantage. There was some rashness, and more than a little luck, but nothing can be certain in warfare. My best officers think on their feet and adapt strategy to the needs of the moment. I’ve watched you, Catos. You get the best from your men, and they are very loyal to you. You give them your respect, but you don’t expect them to be your friends, and you aren’t afraid to discipline them.’

‘I don’t often have cause to, sir.’

‘Of course not. Only a bad officer allows things to deteriorate so far that he must be heavy-handed.’ Yanos stood and stretched. His dog followed him up, feathered tail wagging. She was the colour of the desert, apart from black shading over ear tips and tail. She came and sniffed at Catos, and he rubbed her ears; he could afford to relax a little now. _The Order of Aquilmos!_

It seemed that Yanos hadn’t finished. He lifted a red cloak from the back of a chair and offered it to Catos, holding it out draped across his forearms. ‘I’ll make an official announcement tomorrow, but I thought you might like this now.’

Catos' hand fell away from the soft silky fur at the dog’s ears. He stared at Yanos. This wasn’t possible. ‘Sir?’

‘I’m promoting you, Lord Catos.’

‘Sir! I’m... I’m honoured.’

‘And starting from now, you’re on one month’s leave. You’ll take up your new command on your return.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Hmmm. I thought I made myself clear. You are on leave, Catos.’

‘Yanos, really? I mean, you’re promoting me, and... and the Order of Aquilmos?’

Yanos put his arm around Catos' shoulders and smiled at him. ‘Yes, really, my friend, and you deserve it all. Although I have no doubt that Faros will have something to say to me on the subject. Come! Sit down. What will you have to drink?’

‘Red wine. Thank you.’ Catos removed his breast plate and flopped comfortably into a chair. ‘I, erm, heard that Faros was angry with you.’

‘He felt I wasn’t taking enough care of you, and that’s why you were injured. I had to remind him that we’re not here on some picnic.’ They touched glasses together, and Catos took a large gulp of his wine. It was a good vintage: mellow, with after-flavours that chased across his tongue.

‘This is very good. What is it?’

‘A present from our small friend, Tolman. A vintage from his Shi-er.’ 

Catos took another mouthful, savouring the flavours. If Tolm were here now, he would turn to him for advice, but Tolm was far away. ‘Yanos?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you think Faros cares for me?’

‘No doubt at all. He loves you dearly. Do you really need to ask?’

Catos hesitated. It was tempting to just give a light answer and let the matter rest, but he sorely needed help and advice, and he trusted Yanos. ‘No, I mean -’ It was still hard to say.

‘Yes?’

‘I mean, cares for me as Tolm cares for Barard.’ The words came out in rush, and Catos was suddenly closely interested in swirling the little wine he had left around in the bottom of his glass. 

‘Ah.’

The wine was a very dark red, and Catos stared into its depths. “Ah”? What help was that? It had been hard enough to ask once; he wasn’t going to push the point. He felt exposed and vulnerable. The silence finally forced him to look up. 

Yanos considered him for a moment. ‘Tell me, what do you feel for Faros?

‘I love him.’

‘You mean, you would bed him if you could?’

From Markos or his other friends the question would have sounded coarse, but Yanos' voice was gentle. Catos nodded.

‘How long have you loved him like this?’

‘Since the time of Tolm. He advised me to be patient.’

‘That long? Faros is a fool!’

‘Yanos!’

‘Oh, he’s very wise as a judge, don’t get me wrong, but he does _not_ judge well for himself. Yes, I do believe he loves you as Tolman loves Barard, but I’m not sure he wishes to admit it. The rumour in camp is that you are lovers.’

‘I know. I heard. I wish it were true. Do you think Faros...’

Yanos leaned forward to top up Catos' glass. ‘What?’

Catos took a grateful sip. ‘He had a lover who died. Did you know?’

‘Yes; I know. Trust Tarlos to find these things out.’

‘Do you think it’s possible that... that he’s afraid I’ll die? I mean, I remember some of what happened when I was ill, and I’ve heard the gossip. But as soon as I was getting better, he... he ran away. It was as though he pushed me away and ran.’ Catos rubbed his eyes; Yanos would surely have second thoughts if his newly promoted officer started blubbing into his wine. He met Yanos' gaze again, and the sympathy he saw there encouraged him to continue. ‘Tolm always believed that his usage by that bastard Bayos made him wary of his actions with me.’

‘I cannot imagine what Faros suffered. He has never spoken of it to me, nor of his feelings. Disgust? Self-loathing? He may even believe he is somehow unworthy of you.’

Catos choked on his wine. ‘Unworthy?’ 

Yanos shrugged. ‘One cannot know another’s thoughts. What will you do?’

‘Now I’m on leave? Go and see him.’

‘Good. Tell him from me, he’s a fool.’ 

It was the early hours of the morning, before the city was stirring, when Catos rode into Hafar nearly a week later. He had camped a few hours away the previous evening, but - unable to sleep for the restless ache of longing in his body - he had saddled up and ridden on. Now he felt tired, his excitement at the thought of seeing Faros tempered by his doubt as to what he was going to say. The fingers of one hand curled around the reassuring familiarity of the reins, and he rubbed his other hand on his thigh, wiping away the sweat that had formed despite the early chill of the air. His stomach felt as though it were tied in a knot, but whether from nervousness or anticipation, he wasn’t sure. Possible scenarios played out in his mind: Faros welcoming him into his bed, Faros throwing him out of his house in disgust. The latter was too painful to contemplate, but the image lurked on, hovering just on the edge of conscious thought and adding nausea to his discomfort. 

Since Faros did not keep stables, Catos went first to the palace. He had not yet found the need to get his own residence in the city. He had a room in the palace, but it was Faros' estate near the river that he called home. _What if he does throw me out?_

This early in the morning there would be no hot water at either place, and Catos knew his only hope for a proper wash was to visit the public baths used by servants and the few remaining slaves. He stopped in the palace only long enough to ensure his mare would be well cared for, to leave dispatches for Sûlos with Balios, and to collect clean clothes, then headed out across the awakening market square. He took his time shaving and bathing, putting off the moment when he would make his way to Faros. His hand shook as he scraped away the stubble of his beard, and he swore as he nicked the skin of his neck and blood oozed. _Please, let everything go right!_ If, by some miracle, he found himself in bed with Faros, at least he no longer smelt of stale sweat and horses. 

He gave instructions to a servant for his cavalry clothes to be laundered and returned to the palace, and hoped that his outward pretence of calm assurance fooled the man. Inside, he was in a state of near panic; the thought of succeeding was almost as terrifying as the thought of rejection. His friends had been right, although there was no way that he would have admitted it to them: he was a virgin, a fucking virgin, and the only person he had ever wanted was Faros.

His walk across the city to the garden estates in the southeast did little to calm him, although the irony of being honoured with the Order of Aquilmos and being shit-scared about confronting the man he loved was not lost on him. The sun was still low enough in the sky to dazzle his eyes as he pushed open the tall gate and slipped into Faros' garden. The early morning blue of the sky was thrown back by the lake that stretched away to his right, and it was easier to look at the reflection of the house beyond than directly at the startling whiteness of its walls and columns. A fish broke the water, and the image of the house flickered and wavered into ripples, but not before Catos had seen that the shutters to Faros' room stood open. He shaded his eyes. Drapes were drawn closed; Faros had not yet risen. Maybe he should just go to his own room, catch up on his sleep and see Faros later over breakfast. _Then what?_ Faros would most likely be busy all day, and Catos would have hours in which to fret and worry until he could get him alone in the evening. 

He took a shaky breath and made his way along the well-tended gravel path that skirted the lake. The gardens were full of colour, and flocks of birds rose up before him. The only servant he saw was a gardener in the distance who raised a hand in greeting. That at least ruled out running away: sooner or later, Faros would hear that Catos had come and gone without seeing him. 

As he entered the house, the transition from the brilliance outside into the cool interior left Catos momentarily blinded. He stood waiting for his sight to adjust. He had no wish to announce his presence by blundering into one of the many statues in the reception room. The blackness before him gradually lifted, and dim shapes became more clearly defined as colours brightened. The richly painted wall murals were merely a background detail; he ignored them as he took the wide stairs to the first floor two at a time. He strode to the door of Faros' room, but his resolution faded as he stood there, willing himself to turn the handle. Heart pounding, he wiped his sweat-damp hands on his dress. This was harder than going into battle for the first time; at least then he had not felt so alone. The worst that could have happened was his own death, short and final, but now he feared something worse: the loss of a dream. 

His hand was trembling a little as he turned the handle and entered. He closed the door quietly and turned to lean back against it. Faros was lying asleep on his bed, and he was naked. Catos swallowed, arousal fighting his fear. He had seen Faros naked many times, but never like this, never when he could look freely. Was it right? That he should take possession with his eyes when Faros had no say in the matter? He touched his fingertips to his lips. The kiss made it right. Let Faros deny it, Catos knew he had been kissed.

Faros lay on his back, one arm thrown wide, and the sheet that must have covered him in the night had been cast aside in a crumpled heap. His long hair was loose; a black disordered sheen that spread out over his pillow. Catos sighed softly at the sight of the face he loved in repose. Slowly, his gaze travelled down the lean brown frame. His friends might describe the joys of a generous bosom, narrow waist and fulsome hips in lyrical detail, but all Catos desired was to run his hands over Faros and feel the hard muscle and subtle curves, the _maleness_ of him. And touch him _there,_ feel his cock harden. He wanted... he wanted to bury his head against the slight round of Faros' belly while his hand coaxed forth his seed. Beyond that, he didn’t know, although he had seen and heard enough in the camp to have some ideas. 

_Lie next to him!_ prompted some inner voice. 

_What! No! I can’t do that!_

_So, you’re going to persuade him to bed you by the eloquence of your prose? Is that it?_

_Yes! No! I don’t know. I can’t lie on the bed. My... my clothes will get creased._

_Then take them off!_

Catos swallowed and stepped away from the door. He bent down, unfastened the leather thongs of his sandals, and kicked them away, before shrugging off his robe to lay it over a chair. His fingers were trembling as he unfastened the buttons of his dress. He had a further argument with himself over the cloth wound about his loins, and in the end let it be. The thought of Faros unwinding it made his balls ache and his cock swell within the confines of the soft cotton. 

He slid onto the bed facing Faros, to lie on his side on the discarded sheet, and lifted a strand of hair away from the face that was so dear to him. ‘Faros,’ he whispered.

Faros didn’t wake, not fully, but made a soft noise in his throat and rolled towards Catos, reaching for him. Catos pushed in against him with a sigh of relief. _Faros. Love me._ He pressed a kiss against Faros' skin. The next moment, Faros jerked back as though the touch of Catos' lips were a brand. Before Catos really knew what was happening, he landed on the floor with a yelp of shocked surprise: Faros had grabbed the sheet beneath him and heaved. 

‘Catos! What in the Eye’s name are you doing!’ Faros was out of the bed and pulling on a dressing robe.

‘What the fuck does it look like I’m doing!’ 

‘This is how you horseboys behave, isn’t it? Climbing into each other’s bedrolls when the itch takes you to go whoring? Well, forgive me if I want no part of it. Get dressed and get out!’

The heat of Catos' anger at being dumped so unceremoniously on the floor dissipated into cold panic at the look of disdain. ‘Faros, no. It’s not like that.’

‘We’ll discuss this later. Get dressed and get out.’

Catos pulled himself to his feet. He was numb, his features rigid. The pain would come later. He reached out for his clothes and paused. Was he going to let Faros believe that of him?

‘What are you waiting for?’ Faros was shaking. He looked as close to tears as Catos felt.

‘Shhh, love,’ murmured Catos. He stepped in to stand before Faros, and held his gaze. ‘I’ll go if I must, but let me speak. You owe me that.’

‘I owe you!’

‘For being dishonest with me.’

‘Now just a minute!’

‘Faros, I do remember. I was sick, but I remember. Why did you kiss me if you don’t want me?’

Faros swallowed. ‘You... I... you weren’t awake!’

‘Oh. _That’s_ all right then. Like just now, in fact.’

Faros dropped his gaze. ‘I thought I was going to lose you.’

‘But you don’t mind losing me now?’

That got Faros' attention. His head jerked up. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means you have to choose. I love you. I’ve loved you for years - no one else, only you. I’ve never lain with another. You are all I’ve ever wanted. If you tell me to go, then I’ll go, but we will _not_ discuss this later. I’ll know I was wrong, and we won’t ever talk of it again. Tolm warned me you might never love me as I love you. All you have to do is tell me that you _don’t_ love me, and I’ll go.’ Still there was no pain. It was just as it had been as the sword cuts laid him open: shocked numbness, a sense that this could not be happening. The pain, when it had come, had been overwhelming. Catos didn’t know what else to do. He gazed down at Faros, and that was so wrong that he couldn’t even begin to articulate it. Always he had looked up to this man. He went down on his knees, his body moving smoothly into the prostration, and kissed one foot, then the other. _I am your servant; whatever your choice, I will obey you._ He rested his forehead a moment, fighting back his tears before he rocked back onto his heels and dared to look up. 

‘Catos.’ It was the barest whisper. ‘Catos. I... I’m sorry.’

Catos took the hand stretched out to him, and turned it to kiss the palm. From Faros' expression - soft, dazed - he dared to hope that the apology was for being stupid, rather than for a rejection that was to come. He let go of the hand, and pulled the belt free from Faros' robe. As the silk fell open, he knelt upright and cupped his hands around warm skin and hard muscle to draw Faros closer. He nuzzled in, laying his face against the chest that rose and fell with ragged, uneven breaths. 

Arms wrapped around him, cradling his head, pressing him closer. ‘Catos, stay. I... I want you to stay.’

Catos gave a soft huff of laughter against Faros' skin, because, really, did it look like he was going anywhere? But the next moment all his pent up emotions rolled together into a sob that released his tears. He hadn’t realised that joy could hurt so much. Shaking, he clung to Faros, resisting all Faros' efforts to make him stand. 

‘Catos. Dear Catos. Either stand up, or let me go so that I can come down to you, yes?’

Catos let him go, and pushed up onto his feet and into Faros' arms. Faros soothed him, gentled him until he calmed, and then sought Catos' lips with his own. The kiss was awkward on Catos' part; it took him a moment to realise how much easier it would be if he tilted his head, and a moment longer to realise that Faros wanted him to open his mouth. He felt a moment of panic at his inexperience, but Faros gave a soft hum of contentment as his tongue teased and probed, and Catos relaxed. There were so many sensations: the pressure of Faros' body, the softness of his mouth, the smell of his sweat, the harshness of his stubble against Catos' own smooth-shaven skin, but the overwhelming sensation was of comfort. 

They parted, Catos gasping for air, and Faros laughed. ‘You can breathe, you know.’ He suddenly looked serious. ‘You were telling the truth. You’ve never done this before. Never even kissed.’

Catos bit his lip and shook his head. ‘How could you even think I was making a whore of myself?’ That still rankled.

Faros stroked his face. ‘Shhh. I don’t think that now. The orderly in the field hospital kept leering at me, and telling me that you were much sought after, that you went with anyone.’

‘The lying bastard. I’ll -’ He was halted by Faros' hand cupping over his mouth.

‘I shouldn’t have believed him. But I’d only just realised how much you meant to me, and I wasn’t thinking very clearly.’ 

Faros took his hand away, and Catos smiled at him, his anger forgotten. ‘Yanos says to tell you, you’re a fool.’

‘Yes.’ Simple agreement.

Catos wanted to lay his head on Faros' shoulder, but the height difference meant the other way worked better. He rested his cheek against thick, black hair and smiled again at the light kisses pressed within the hollow of his neck. That felt surprisingly good, but it wasn’t enough to stop him yawning. He had forgotten how tired he was. 

Faros raised his head. ‘Did you ride through the night?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Then come to bed. Sleep now.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘Here. With you. There’s nothing I was due to do today that I can’t cancel. When did you last eat?’

‘Yesterday.’

Faros made a disapproving noise, and released Catos to give the bell-pull by the bed a sharp tug. He disappeared briefly into his dressing room, and reappeared with another dressing gown. He held it up for Catos to slip his arms into, and reached around him to tie the belt. With a sigh of contentment, Catos leaned back into Faros' body and shivered at the kisses that ghosted down the back of his neck. A knock at the door pulled them apart.

‘Come in.’ 

Catos tried to look nonchalant, as though he were always to be found in Faros' room. It was Faros' personal manservant who entered, carrying a tray with a jug of coffee and a single cup. ‘Good morning, sir.’ His face broke into a smile at the sight of Catos. ‘Lord Catos, welcome home. I didn’t know you were here. I’ll fetch another cup.’

‘And some breakfast. Something that won’t take too long. Lord Catos has been travelling all night. I don’t think he’ll stay awake much longer.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell the cook, and then make sure our young lord’s room is ready.’

‘No need. He’ll sleep here. Will you send a message to the palace to cancel my engagements for today? We’ll be dining in tonight; tell the cook it’s a celebratory meal.’

‘Of course.’ The servant nodded, and Catos caught the slight twitch of amusement about his mouth. ‘May we know what you’re celebrating?’

Faros hesitated, and Catos stepped in smoothly. ‘I’ve been promoted, and I’m to be awarded the Order of Aquilmos.’ 

‘Congratulations, my lord. Well deserved, by all accounts.’ The servant took his leave with a bow, and Faros shut the door behind him. 

‘The order of Aquilmos? Catos, I’m proud of you!’

‘We must write to Tolm.’

‘Or maybe tell him.’

‘What! He’s coming home?’ Catos hugged Faros in delight, but Faros shook his head, even as he folded his arms around Catos. 

‘This isn’t his home. The king is sending an ambassador to Gondor.’

‘Who? Who is to go? Can we go?’

‘I have asked - begged - but Sûlos hasn’t yet decided. There are many who’ve petitioned for this honour.’

‘But if you go, I can come with you, yes?’

‘That would be Yanos' decision.’

‘Faros, we must go!’

‘I’ll let you be the one to tell Sûlos that.’

‘Maybe not. But I can beg as well as the next man.’

‘Mmmm. I’ll hold you to that later.’ 

Catos swallowed at the hum of approval and the husky promise. He felt a rise of excitement, but also the fear. He was crap at kissing - what would he be like in bed?

‘Catos?’ Faros caught Catos' lower lip between his, a soft teasing. ‘Don’t look so worried. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. You know that don’t you?’ 

For answer Catos tilted his head down and parted his lips. The soft noise he made in the back of his throat was an involuntary expression of his desire. _There’s nothing - there’s nothing I don’t want._ Faros pressed in to claim what Catos offered, and Catos gladly gave himself into the keeping of the man he loved. He remembered to breathe, while he remembered anything, and then he was sinking, falling into a deep well of _feeling._ Faros shifted, slipping a hand within the dressing gown Catos wore, his finger tips brushing down over taut belly. The light touch over sensitised skin was like throwing a lighted taper into a flask of volatile oil. Catos was dimly aware of the heat that suffused his body, of the rough intensity of their kissing, of the urgency of his hands, but it was no more than a backdrop to the jolt of sensation at Faros' touch. He canted his hips instinctively, his whole body pleading for those fingers to dip lower, to slip beneath the cloth that confined his cock. He wanted to thrust into the haven of Faros' encircling hand and lose himself, to become in truth what others had believed him to be. _Please! More! Don’t stop._

The next moment, Catos stilled in shocked surprise and his eyes flew open. Had he done something wrong? Faros _had_ stopped, withdrawn. Hands curled at Catos' hips, pushing him away. As Faros disengaged from the intimacy of their kiss, he turned his head towards the door. His voice, pitched to carry, made Catos jump.

‘Thank you. Leave the tray there.’

The answer was muffled. ‘Very good, sir,’ There was a clatter, as of a tray being set down, and the soft sound of receding footsteps. Catos swallowed.

‘There was a knock?’

Faros rubbed the back of his hand down Catos' undamaged cheek. ‘Yes, there was a knock. You didn’t hear it?’ Catos shook his head. He was still trying to recover from the sensation of having been doused in cold water. Faros pulled him close again, and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘You look exhausted. Have some food, and then you can get some sleep.’

‘Fuck the food.’

‘I’d rather fuck you.’ There was an underlying roughness in the words that made Catos tremble, but not because he didn’t want to be fucked and definitely not because he shied away from the idea of rough. Faros was such a gentle man, and the thought that he might be quite otherwise in bed was all Catos' cock needed to complete its recovery.

‘So, do it.’ He pressed in and rubbed his hips from side to side, letting Faros feel how hard he was.

Lips quirked in amusement. ‘A very tempting offer, but I want your first time to be more than a quick jump in the sack. You’re nearly dropping on your feet.’

‘I’m fine.’ 

‘No, you’re not. You’ve been ill, and you’ve not had any sleep. Look in the mirror and tell me you’re fine.’ Faros turned Catos to face the large mirror that hung on one wall, and left him there while he fetched the tray. Catos had to admit Faros had a point: he did look tired. He stared into eyes half hooded by drooping lids. It was easiest to just let his lids close. His head nodded...

‘Catos!’ 

Catos jumped. ‘Wha?’ He looked blearily into the mirror, his heart thumping, trying to gather his wits and work out where he was. Faros stood partly behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Faros smiled.

‘You were asleep, love.’ The word _love_ was a caress. A warmth spread through Catos as he held Faros' reflected gaze, and he relaxed into it, his body’s demands in abeyance for the moment. Faros gave him a little shake. ‘Food.’

Catos sighed. ‘All right. If it makes you happy.’ He knew Faros well, and there was a tendency for him to want things to be perfect, and anticipation was all part of his enjoyment. At the great festivals, Faros sometimes drove Catos mad with his obsessive insistence that every tradition should be adhered to. Catos had given up protesting that it was only a stupid festival and it didn’t matter. It mattered to Faros, and that was enough for Catos. Now, he accepted a bowl of his favourite breakfast, and nodded at the thought that the kitchen servants knew their role in Faros' quest for perfection. He obediently curled his long frame into a chair, and tore off bread to scoop up the mix of aubergine, sesame paste and dried tomatoes. The taste of garlic was strong, lemon added its distinctive tang, and the flavour of pine nuts rounded the whole into a sensual feast. He was hungrier than he’d realised, and he wiped the bowl clean, licking his fingers with slow, appreciative thoroughness. He looked up, to find that Faros was staring at him with his coffee cup part-raised between saucer and lips. The cup was canting dangerously close to spilling its contents.

‘Faros?’

Faros jumped and really did spill his coffee. ‘Oh... fuck.’ He set the cup aside, jumped up and brushed ineffectually at his dressing gown. It was very obvious that the gown covered an impressive erection. 

Catos uncurled from his chair, carelessly dumped his empty bowl on the tray, and impatiently tugged loose the belt around Faros' waist. The ruined silk fell open. Catos half expected Faros to protest when he eased the fine cloth off his shoulders, but Faros didn’t move. Gravity took over, and the robe whispered to the floor unheeded. Catos furled his hand around the rigid cock, feeling the weight and the heat. He rubbed his thumb back and forth, his gaze held by the dark depths of Faros' eyes. ‘I love you,’ he murmured. ‘I love you.’ He had wanted to tell Faros this for so long, and now it seemed inadequate, trite. _You are my heart, my life._ What would it be like to have this cock thrusting deep within him? He closed his eyes at the thought, aching to be taken, if the taking was by Faros. There was no fear now; Faros would hold him, teach him, guide him, love him, and the fine tremor he could not control was no longer from fear but from the sheer wanting. He felt fingers loosen constraining cloth, and then he was being teased and caressed. His own hand working his cock had never, _ever_ felt like this. He gave a soft cry, as Faros spread moisture with his thumb.

‘Catos.’ It was love expressed in two syllables, breathed out in wonder. ‘Come to bed.’

Catos opened his eyes, and tried to smile, but couldn’t; the gaze he met was too intense, a conflagration waiting to happen. He had been surrounded all his life by brown eyes, had not known any other colour was possible until he met Barard, but there was brown, and there was Faros. Warm, and loving, and so deep he could lose himself. 

‘Come to bed.’ It was an invitation, not an order. Faros' voice was husky, catching a little on the word _bed._ Resonating as it did with Catos' own throbbing need, it made it hard to think. The only wonder was that he hadn’t just come at the sound of it. 

‘I... I...’

‘Shhh. Don’t talk.’ 

Catos hadn’t realised he was being manoeuvred backwards until the bed collided with the backs of his legs. Faros let go of his cock, which was bad, and stripped the robe from his shoulders, which was good. Warm hands running lightly up the inside of his thighs were better than good, and Catos spread his legs and lifted his hips in invitation. He whimpered in frustration as Faros ignored him. Hands smoothed on up over his flanks and chest, thumbs rubbed at his nipples. Lips whispered against his. ‘Bed.’ 

Damn the man! He was pulling away _again._ ‘Faros!’ 

‘Shhh. I’m old enough to like my comforts, horseboy.’ This time the appellation was warm, an unspoken possessive hanging in the air. _My_ horseboy. Faros took his hand, drawing him onto the bed; his fingers curled around Catos' shoulders as he pushed him onto his back. Faros' hair was still loose, falling like a curtain around his face as he knelt over Catos and kissed him again. Catos moaned into the kiss, his eyes fluttering closed as Faros settled his weight part on him. One hand wrapped around his cock started a slow stroke, and all the while, Catos could feel hard heat against his thigh. He had a hazy notion he should somehow be reciprocating, but all he could do was clutch Faros and make stupid, inarticulate noises. Faros moved against him, matching the rhythm of his hand and mouth to that of his body, and it was all too much. Catos was desperate for relief, desperate to come, but the pace was just short of that needed to topple him over the edge. He pushed up against Faros, his mouth hard and demanding, his back arching, his hips trying to thrust against the restraining weight. He pressed Faros to himself, one hand locked into his hair, the other at the firm swell of his arse. He twined a leg around Faros' thighs, scrabbling for greater purchase, unable to care that he had trapped his Faros-enfolded cock between them. 

Faros didn’t seem to care either. He made a deep noise in the back of his throat and hugged Catos to him. They moved together, to a place where there was no pulling back, no thought of pulling back, nowhere to go but into an obliviousness of everything except an outpouring of love. The intensity shook Catos, left him gasping and sobbing for breath, still pressed to Faros, still clutching him. It took long moments to come back to himself enough to realise that his head was thrown back, that his mouth was open, that light kisses roamed over his eyelids and face, that his body was being gently stroked. Slowly, he opened his eyes and gazed into warm, brown depths that were full of wonder. He twined his arms around Faros' body, and smiled lazily up at him, drifting in a state of euphoria. His eyes fluttered closed again on a sigh of contentment, and without meaning to, he fell asleep.

Faros traced his fingers down the long scar, the ugliness failing to mar the inherent beauty of the sleeping face. He had no fear that he would disturb Catos. The younger man was deep in an exhausted sleep; his head had rolled sideways, and his breath was a gentle wafting of air against Faros' heated skin. Faros shifted slightly, his movement resisted by the friction of their mingled sweat. Soon he would have to peel himself away, fetch a towel or cloth, whatever came to hand, and wipe away the evidence of their loving. For now, he absorbed the well-known features in minute detail, reminded of his vigil at Catos' side as he lay in a fever. The news of the injuries had wrenched him from his carefully nurtured denial, had winded him as though a great weight had slammed into his chest, and had sent him hurtling to the Khand border in complete disregard of his own safety or his horse’s well-being. Yanos was right: he was a fool; a fool not to have recognised what Catos was to him, and a fool to have believed the lies. Catos had a lot to forgive him for, and the accusation, _‘How could you even think...?’_ hung on the air. Faros wondered that himself, but he had seen the easy sexual camaraderie between the men in the cavalry, and the malicious fabrication had been all too easy to believe. Who would _not_ desire this man? He traced a finger along the curve of black eyebrow, and was drawn again to the presence of the scar. 

_And I was a coward!_

Faros admitted the hard truth - he had fled from his memories of pain, of loss. To give one’s heart into the keeping of another was to invite heartbreak. The long scar stood proud, the skin around it puckered; it would take time to contract into a narrow white line - if the time were granted, if Catos’ luck held out. 

As a senior officer, would he be in more or less jeopardy than before? Faros didn’t know, but he did know he would die a little each time Catos returned to active duty. He sighed, and levered himself up. The cloth that had fallen unheeded from Catos’ loins would do. He stretched for it, caught the end, and knelt over Catos to wipe away their come, caressing as much as cleansing. The sight of Catos sprawled on his bed, loose-limbed and naked, was very arousing. He wiped himself, tugging slightly at his cock, and shivered in anticipation of Catos’ hand on him. The cloth sailed through the air to land in a basket of dirty laundry, and Faros debated whether to ring for some hot water. He had just decided to leave that for now, had instead settled into a careful examination of the scars over Catos' arm, chest and leg, when there was a soft knock at the door. It was a knock that did not wish to intrude, a knock that acknowledged it might receive no answer.

Faros eased away from Catos, threw a light sheet over him, and pulled on the robe that Catos had worn. He opened the door just a little.

‘Rufos!’ He stood back, inviting entry, surprised to see his estate steward, and especially surprised to see that he carried a tray laden with a large jug of hot water, a wide bowl, soap and shaving gear. A towel was hung over one forearm. Faros did not miss the glance towards the bed as his friend entered, but he trusted Rufos. Gossip would not be slow in linking his name to his former ward’s, but he had every confidence that Rufos would not be the source, and there was little point in being less than honest now.

Rufos set the tray down, and pulled the towel from his arm with a flourish. He did not even try to avoid the issue. ‘I’m glad to see that Catos has finally made you see sense.’

‘And what’s that suppose to mean?’

‘Only that Catos has wanted you to bed him for a long time.’ Rufos concentrated on pouring water into the bowl, but he looked straight at Faros for his next comment, pinning him with his gaze. ‘And he wants more than just bedding, you do know that, don’t you, Faros?’

Faros met the gaze. ‘Yes, Rufos. He has my heart, does that satisfy you? What are you doing here anyway?’ He waved a hand at the tray. ‘Playing servant like this?’ 

‘The talk in the household is already full of speculation. I thought I’d keep them guessing.’ 

‘And you wanted to see for yourself.’ Faros suppressed a smile, but not soon enough to be convincing in his attempt at disapproval. 

Rufos set down the jug and laughed. ‘Yes, of course. And I do have a message for you from the palace.’ His expression stilled into more sober lines, and he cleared his throat. ‘For my part, I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, my friend. I’ve often thought that Patros would have been saddened by your mourning him for so long.’

Faros sat down suddenly on the side of the bed and looked miserably at his hands. ‘I feel... I feel as though I’m betraying his memory.’ 

Rufos came and squatted in front of him. ‘He’d be happy that you’ve found love again.’

Faros looked up enough to meet Rufos' eyes. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I know so.’ A firm statement that brooked no argument, a reminder of their shared experience as slaves. ‘You do him a disservice if you believe otherwise.’

‘Thank you. You comfort me a little, but our small friend, Tolmos Aquilmos, would have followed his love into death.’ 

Rufos shrugged. ‘He’s a northern barbarian; he knows no better.’

That roused Faros. He pushed up onto his feet, glaring at Rufos. ‘The Gondorians are _not_ barbarians!’ 

Rufos was in no way intimidated. He followed Faros in standing. ‘But Aquilmos comes from even further north, yes? If the tales are true.’ He pulled out a straight backed chair - an invitation to sit - and picked up a tortoiseshell comb. ‘Let me be your manservant, since I’m here.’

‘There’s no need -’

’No, there isn’t, but I’d like to do you this service, as a friend. Now sit down.’

A little adjustment was needed in Faros' opinion. He shifted the chair so that it was facing the bed before seating himself to let Rufos comb and braid his hair. He winced as the comb caught on a tangled knot. That must be where Catos' fingers had twined so desperately. He looked at the sleeping face, and felt a warm rush of love to banish all his doubts. Their simple loving had been a promise, a commitment. That it had also been a rebirth was a source of wonder to Faros. He sat in silence for a while, absorbed in his study of Catos asleep. The steady flow of the tines of the comb through his hair and the deft fingers braiding in the gold thread were very soothing, but Tolm still needed defending. 

‘He comes from a simple, pastoral folk.’

‘What? Oh, you mean Tolmos Aquilmos. Do his people really live in holes in the ground?’

Faros knew the answer to that; he had often questioned his small friend about his _Shi-er._ ‘Only the very rich and the very poor. Tolm is connected to all the important families, and Barard’s brother is something like a king, from what I can gather. They have huge delvings, but no cities.’

‘Forgive me, but that doesn’t sound very civilised.’

‘Cities are places of fortification, of defence, but also of threat; they are about power, Rufos. _Harflings_ do not make war or even threaten it. That seems very civilised to me.’ He shut up, knowing he was being too earnest about this, and also knowing that Rufos was deliberately distracting his thoughts away from Patros. 

Rufos rubbed oil over harsh stubble and began scraping both off together, effectively preventing all response to his next comment. ‘Ah, the Peacemaker talking. Now, if you could just persuade the Khand to stop harbouring our enemies, we wouldn’t have to worry about Catos coming to grief, would we?’ 

Faros' thoughts were catapulted from Halflings, their strange ways and customs, back to his fears for Catos' safety. Rufos knew him too well, knew the exact fulcrum point to apply a lever, although sometimes the force he applied was ill-judged, excessive. Faros closed his eyes and fought to control his feelings. He let Rufos finish the task of shaving, and only opened his eyes again as Rufos wiped the last trace of oil from his face. The sting of orange water applied as an astringent was welcome. 

‘What was the message from the palace?’ He stood, looking anywhere but directly at Rufos; he hadn’t meant to sound so cold, but more talking would bring him to the point where he couldn’t control his voice.

‘Faros! I’m sorry!’ 

‘The message?’

‘Sûlos requests the company of yourself and Lord Catos at the palace for the noonday meal.’

‘Thank you.’ It was a dismissal. The quicker Rufos left now the better. He flinched away from Rufos' hand laid on his shoulder, and Rufos sighed. 

‘I do mean “I’m sorry.” It was not my intention to cause you pain. Would you not rather I stayed?’

Faros shook his head. He waited until his friend was almost out of the door before he spoke again, repeating his last words more softly. ‘Thank you, Rufos. I do mean that, as well.’ 

Rufos paused on the threshold. ‘You worry too much. He’ll be fine.’

Faros had trouble holding the mask until the door had shut. He sagged down onto the foot of the bed and buried his face in his hands. His fears for Catos were bound up with past loss. He stood again in the Cartwright’s Inn, asking the innkeeper if he had seen Patros.

_‘No, I haven’t seen him for a week, maybe longer. You’ve not been around, for that matter.’ The innkeeper looked at Faros critically. ‘River fever?’_

_Faros nodded. It was a fair guess, given that the fever had been sweeping through the city in the aftermath of the rains. He knew he looked awful, and the mother had not wanted to let him out, but he was desperate to find Patros. He turned away before the innkeeper could deliver a long monologue of comment and speculation about the fever that appeared every few years to take its toll on the sick and the elderly. What to do next? The inn had been the last place to look. Patros was always free around this time, so where was he? The sickening answer was that he had also been struck down by the fever. Faros would have run if he hadn’t felt so weakened by his own illness. He stumbled down towards the market._

_‘Faros! Wait!’ Rufos came panting up to his side. ‘How are you? Shit, you look terrible!’_

_‘I’m... have you seen Patros?’_

_’No, I haven’t. Hey! Where are you going?’_

_‘To his house.’_

_‘Faros! Come back! You can’t do that!’ Faros ignored him, and took the way that led to the most affluent part of the city. His master might have pretensions of grandeur, but Patros’ master really was very rich. ‘Faros! Wait!’_

_Faros spared Rufos a glance as he caught up. ‘Don’t try to stop me.’_

_‘I’m coming with you.’_

_Faros shrugged and kept walking, but he was glad of his friend’s company. Gradually the bustle of the city died away as they walked down a wide street between high walls. Gnarled lemon trees overhung the way, the fruit bright against the green foliage, and lizards scuttled between the red stones. Rufos looked about him, but Faros had seen it all before; when he first discovered he was in love, he would come here just to be nearer to Patros, despite the fact he risked arrest if found loitering for no good reason. With time, he had learnt to live between each encounter without such recklessness, but now he didn’t care what happened, as long as he got news of Patros. He stopped before a tall gate and peered through the iron bars at the extensive grounds, the lake, and the white house beyond. There! That was what he had been hoping for! A slave worked in the garden, raking the gravel paths after the recent rains to discourage weeds. Faros put his hand on the gate catch and eased it up._

_‘You can’t go in there!’ hissed Rufos._

_‘Yes, I can. I’ve got to know. If he’s ill maybe I can persuade the mother to let me see him.’_

_‘What! You’re mad! You’ll be arrested!’_

_‘Just stay out of sight.’ The last thing Faros wanted was for Rufos to get into trouble. He pushed the gate open and slipped into the garden. It was a pity that the layout was so open. He’d just have to appear as though he had some right to be there; to appear furtive would be to invite disaster. He walked with eyes downcast, aware even so that the gardener had straightened and was leaning on his rake._

_‘What business have you here?’ The tone was neutral, seeking information rather than challenging Faros' right to be in the garden. Faros glanced around; slave etiquette ruled that an apology was necessary before he made his request, since trouble could follow from helping him._

_’I’m sorry. I need to know if Patros is well.’_

_The gardener slowly straightened and swore softly under his breath. He, too, looked around before answering with a question._

_‘You’re Faros?’_

_Faros nodded. Well that was something, but he didn’t like the way the other slave swallowed and avoided his gaze. ‘Just tell me, quickly. Is he all right?’_

_They both jumped as a voice barked out at them. ‘Mathos! Who is this!’ The man who strode towards them was a slave, but an important one within the household judging by the quality of his dress. Mathos’ subservience confirmed this._

_He comes with a message about the seeds I ordered, sir.’_

_Faros avoided any look of gratitude towards Mathos that might betray the lie. Instead, he adopted a respectful stance with eyes lowered._

_‘If the message is given, then do not stand in idle chat.’_

_I need only decide on an alternative order, sir. Perhaps I could take him to the kitchen? While I think about what I need? It would save time later.’_

_‘No, Mathos, you may not. The master is due home at anytime and I want you finished with your work and out of sight before he arrives. See this slave out of the grounds at once.’_

_‘Yes, sir.’_

_Faros gave a small bow of the head. His heart had leapt at Mathos’ suggestion, and he was deeply disappointed by the refusal, but he was fairly sure he had let no trace of his feelings show. At least there would be an opportunity to get an answer to his question, and if Patros were ill, he could offer to buy Mathos a drink to both thank him and get reports of the fever’s progress. If Patros was well, and maybe confined as a punishment for some misdemeanour, then it was very likely that Mathos could take a message to him. Faros was in no doubt that the high ranking slave would be unsympathetic, otherwise Mathos would have been more honest._

_They did not speak until they were nearly at the gate. ‘Please tell me, Mathos, is he well?’_

_Mathos held the gate open. ‘You’ve been ill, haven’t you? He was worried about you, but then he came down with the fever and...’ The man tailed off, scuffling at the gravel with one foot. ‘I know... I know he thought a lot of you.’_

_Faros stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’_

_Mathos pushed him through the gateway. ‘Are you free tonight? I’ll meet you in the Lamplighters’ Inn.’ He nodded to Rufos. ‘I’m glad you have a friend here. I’m sorry, Faros, I really am. I’ll tell you more later, but Patros is dead.’_

_Faros stood in shock, his only thought that there must be some mistake. Patros wasn’t dead. Patros_ couldn’t _be dead! The gate closed with a clang of finality, and Rufos pulled Faros behind the high wall._ ‘It’s white,’ _thought Faros._ ‘The wall is white.’ _He curled his fingers into gaps between the stones, scraping his knuckles, but the pain was not enough, not real enough. He smacked his forehead against a projecting stone, and that was better, he could almost feel that._

_‘Faros! Nienna’s tears!’ Rufos tried to drag him away, but Faros fought against him, his throat constricted on a wail._

_‘For the Eye’s sake, Faros, I know, I know, but stop that noise, stop that noise now! We can’t stay here. Someone will come.’_

_‘He’s dead! He’s dead!’ Saying the words made it real; if only he’d not said them, they would not have been true. Faros sagged against Rufos. ‘He can’t be dead. Tell me he’s not dead.’_

_‘Faros, you need to help me here. Walk!’_

_In a daze, Faros obeyed. He was shaking. Every step was an effort, his body forcing a way through the air that swirled around him like deep water. The current tugged at him, turning him back towards the house._

_‘Faros! No! You can’t go back. He isn’t there. You know he won’t be there!’_

_‘They’ll have burnt his body,’ whispered Faros, and the pain settled into an agony so intense that he could not prevent his knees giving way. He came down heavily onto the paved way, and curled over. ‘I can’t - even - go - there.’_

_Rufos crouched beside him, an arm around his shoulder. ‘No, you can’t, but it doesn’t make any difference; Patros isn’t out there, outside the city wall.’ He pulled Faros upright and waved a hand around them. ‘He’s here.’ His hand struck Faros on the chest. ‘He’s here. It’s no comfort, I know that, but there’s no need to go seeking him back at the house, or getting yourself arrested by trying to leave the city. Let’s get you home.’_

_‘Home! Home is with Patros!’ Why had he never realised that before?_

_‘We can’t stay here, Faros. Get up!’_

_Faros nodded; Rufos was right, but he couldn’t mange to push himself to his feet. Rufos released him to slip his hands beneath Faros' arms and haul him upright. Dry-eyed, Faros leaned against his friend. ’Why can’t I cry?’ he whispered. ‘What’s wrong with me that I can’t cry?’_

_‘Sometimes it cuts too deep.’ Rufos' voice shook, and Faros raised his head to look at him._

_‘You’re crying.’_

_‘We have to go, Faros.’_

Faros had no memory of that walk back to the jeweller’s house. He’d lived in a dark world where there was no sunshine and no laughter, until a scrawny boy and a small imp came into his life. They had amused him, made him laugh, and Tolm’s grief had released emotions that Faros thought were buried deep. Just remembering, tears came, deepening his confusion. He loved Catos, but he was still grieving for Patros, and that seemed dishonest to both men. He dragged his palms down his face, rubbing at his eyes. 

‘Faros?’ A weight settled across his shoulders. ‘Faros, what is it?’ Warm breath wafted across his cheek, fingers tugged at his hands with gentle insistence. Faros raised his head to find Catos draped over his back. He leaned back into the solid strength. Catos wrapped his arms around Faros' chest and kissed him on the temple. ‘Do you want me to go?’

Faros heard the unspoken question, _do you not want this?_ He turned his head, tilting up to meet Catos, to silence his fears with the warmth of a kiss that was possessive and deep and full of the love he felt. Catos relaxed into the kiss, and the small noise he made was a repetition of earlier. Whether it represented satisfaction or need, Faros wasn’t sure, but he did know that he loved the sound already. He sighed as they parted, resting his head back against Catos' shoulder. His horseboy knelt behind him, arms folded loosely across his chest.’ 

‘Will you tell me?’ 

‘I’m sorry.’ Faros ran his hands down dark thighs which framed his own and closed his eyes again. ‘I can’t help thinking about Patros. It doesn’t mean... it doesn’t mean...’ _It doesn’t mean I don’t love you._ He felt Catos stiffen, felt the arms around him tighten, but he wasn’t sure if that was in reassurance or jealousy. He was not proud of his behaviour over the last few weeks, and he owed it to Catos to state his feelings clearly, but it was Catos who spoke first.

‘If I were to die, I hope you’d always love me, think about me. You don’t have to apologise for... Faros?’ 

Faros seldom let tears get the better of him, but when that reserve was broken, they came in wracking sobs that tore him apart. Catos moulded to his back, arms wrapped around him: a haven of safety in which to lose himself. Gradually, the fit passed as darkness and the memory of darkness gave way to knowledge of the man who held him. Faros had no idea what he had ever done to deserve Catos' love and devotion. He clutched at the arms that were wrapped around him, and realised how much he had missed such contact: missed the warmth of breath against his skin, missed the closeness, missed kisses that could reassure, comfort, arouse. Missed having a lover. He listened to what Catos was saying over and over.

‘Hush, hush. I’m so stupid; forgive me.’

‘I... I love you.’ It was hardly the clear declaration Faros had hoped for; his nose was blocked and his voice sounded odd. Catos gave him a reassuring squeeze and released him. The mattress dipped and rose. Faros watched Catos move across the room, enjoying the sight of his naked body, but not sure why Catos had left their bed. He smiled at that thought. _Their_ bed. Catos turned, cloth in hand, and caught the smile. His whole face lit up in answer. He stood before Faros and handed him the cloth to blow his nose. 

‘You fear I’ll die, like Patros did.’

Faros took a deep shaky breath and let it out slowly to steady himself. ‘Yes, how did you...?’

‘Know? You told me. You told me not to die, you told me you couldn’t bear it again - and I go and say a stupid, _stupid_ thing like...’

‘You heard me say that?’

‘Yes. I heard you say that. Would you like me to leave the cavalry?’

It was tempting to say _yes!_ but Faros loved Catos for who he was, and this was no small gift offered. He only had to say “yes”, and Catos would resign his commission. The young man’s earlier pride over his promotion, the studied nonchalance now, left Faros in no doubt as to the sacrifice Catos was prepared to make. He blew his nose again, threw the cloth aside. ‘No, I don’t want that. Yanos tells me that you have the potential to be a great leader, that we need men like you in our armies, in peace, as well as in war.’ Faros smiled as Catos' gaze slid away in embarrassment. ‘But you must forgive me if I do what I can to bring about peace by diplomatic means while you're waving your sword around and shouting a lot.’ 

Catos met Faros' gaze again and gave a small huff of laughter. He stroked his thumbs over Faros' face, removing the dampness that clung there. ‘I don’t fight for fighting’s sake, you know. If you can end the war more quickly, then I would thank you for it.’

‘Your recent victory has made the Khand ready to talk.’ Faros always enjoyed hearing Catos' views, but Catos ignored the comment. He bent down to kiss Faros, his single braid falling forward. It was a gentle exploration, teasing at Faros' lower lip. 

‘Will you tell me about Patros?’

Faros looked up at Catos as the young man straightened. ‘What do you want to know?’ 

‘What was he like? He must have been special for you to love him.’ 

Faros raised his eyebrows and was answered with a smug grin. He didn’t reply straight away; the rush of love he felt for Catos took his breath away. He reached out, needing to touch. Catos was very different from Patros, not only much taller but also more solid. Muscles were well-defined, despite wounding, fever and convalescence. ‘He was a small man, a central-plains man, though not quite so dark as you. Soft spoken, but full of laughter.’ He smiled up at Catos. ‘Yes, he was special, but not as conceited as you.’

‘Ha!’

‘He lived here.’

‘Here?’ Catos frowned, all spark of laughter gone from his eyes, and Faros silently cursed himself, noting the flare of nostril and the tensing of jaw. He had not thought Catos would mind so much. The last thing he wanted was to cause pain; he hastened to match Catos' generosity, to take the pain as his own.

‘Would you like me to sell the house?’ 

‘What! No!’ Catos looked truly shocked at the idea. 

‘But you don’t like the thought -’

‘I don’t like the thought that you have no grave or keepsake. You were _thrown out_ and I never realised it was from here.’ Catos touched Faros' face with a light caress of fingertips. ‘Don’t look so surprised; Rufos told me when I asked him how Patros died. At the time I thought there was something he wasn’t telling me. I know it’s easier to accept a death when you can be there, and when all the death-rites are observed. I’m sorry you were denied that for one you love so well, that you were unable to say good bye and wish him safe passage into the unknown.’ 

Faros swallowed. He didn’t really believe that the long journey could only take place after the proper death-rites had been performed, although a small, rarely heard voice held the view that he only doubted because the alternative was too painful to contemplate. He didn’t know which was worse: the thought of ceremonies which had never taken place, or Catos' familiarity with death and loss, implied by this insight. 

‘What are you thinking?’

Faros didn’t feel inclined to voice either thought. He kissed the fingertips that had come to rest over his lips and responded instead to the tense Catos had chosen to use. ‘Thank you for understanding that I still love him.’

Catos knelt on the bed next to Faros and draped an arm around his neck. ‘Just think of us as your harem. I suppose that makes me your concubine. I doubt your wife will be pleased.’ 

‘Lady Saskia knows that her position is mainly a name, that she is free to look elsewhere with discretion, although I would prefer an heir to be of my siring. I think she likes the fact that I will neither weary her with my attentions, nor bring home a flock of younger wives to make her life difficult. I doubt she’ll be unduly worried by your place in my heart, as long as we don’t flaunt our love before the world, and so belittle her place in my household.’

‘Rumour will not be long in finding its way into the market place.’

‘It’s probably there already.’ Faros turned his head as the warmth against his back was lost. Catos had shifted away, tugging at Faros in a wordless plea as he moved further onto the bed, _Come. Lie with me._ Faros responded, his heartbeat quickening as he twisted to face Catos. To be in love again stripped away his years, bringing impatience. He took the young man’s shoulders, pushing him onto his back and following him onto the disordered bed to cover him. Catos, I love you. They moved together, lips meeting softly at first. Catos made that small noise in the back of his throat, and Faros gathered him in his arms as the contact hardened into a hunger to satisfy their bodies’ needs. By the time they parted, heated and panting, Faros found himself gazing into eyes made even darker with desire. His voice came out a husky whisper.

‘We... we have to be at the palace by noon.’ 

‘I want... I want to...’ Catos didn’t finish the sentence. He rolled Faros over and slid down his body, lips and tongue trailing warmth over sensitised skin to show by his actions what his words had failed to convey. Faros twitched beneath him, and Catos laughed softly, the laugh cut off as his tongue and lips explored the possibilities of cock-loving. There was little finesse, not that Faros cared. The thought came to him with fleeting clarity that, with more skill, Catos would kill him with his tongue, but for now enthusiasm more than made up for technique. Faros dug fingers into Catos' shoulder, trying desperately not to thrust.

‘Catos... I’m...’

Catos' bent head stilled; Faros felt the swirl of tongue, and his head fell back against the bed, neck arching as his eyes fluttered shut. His throat closed on a series of deep groans as release took him, and the intensity of it left him limp and helpless. Some called it the little death, and he felt the truth of it. He was unmade. With difficulty, he forced his eyes open and lifted his head. 

Catos lay with his head on Faros' belly, his right hand kneading gently at Faros' left hip, his shoulder showing the marks of Faros' fingers. At the tightening of the muscles beneath his cheek, he raised his head and smiled at Faros. He looked thoroughly content. ‘Was that good?’

‘Mmmmm. Come here.’ Faros drew Catos into his arms and they kissed again, the scent and taste of seed mingling together. ‘Catos?’ He wasn’t sure if now was a good time for this confession, but it had to be said, and soon. Catos didn’t answer with words; he stroked Faros' cheek with his thumb and raised an eyebrow at the hesitation in Faros' voice. ‘I... I can’t do that. Not yet.’ 

Catos pushed himself up a little, and his eyes came into clearer focus, looking doubtful. Faros hastened to reassure him; Catos always thought everything was his fault. ‘It’s me; I can’t give head. I’m sorry.’ 

‘Because of Bayos?’ Catos' nostrils flared with anger as understanding dawned. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? I wish Tolm had killed the bastard.’

‘And then Tolm would have died.’ 

‘You always have an answer for _everything!’_

‘I don’t have an answer for this, except maybe it can be different with time.’ _Please let it be different with time._ He’d tried on several occasions with Patros, but always ended up gagging and retching. Could it be different? Could he learn that it _was_ different? He sighed as Catos relaxed back into his arms. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to.’ 

‘It’s not your fault. What else did that camel-excrement make you do?’

‘Nothing else.’

Catos looked at him suspiciously. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I think I would have noticed.’

‘Yes, but you aren’t very good at telling. You keep everything locked up inside.’

‘Like just now?’ Faros smiled as the worried frown disappeared from Catos' face. 

_‘Was_ it good?’

‘Very. Did you enjoy it?’ 

‘I want to do it again.’ Catos wormed a hand between them and caught hold of Faros' soft cock. 

‘We have to go to the palace.’

‘But tonight? You’ll fuck me?’

Faros groaned. It was just possible that Catos would give him another erection. He wanted to sheath himself in tight heat, feel the constricting muscles as he made Catos cry out with the burning pain that gave way to pleasure. ‘Yes, tonight. We’ll take a bath together and make sure we aren’t disturbed until the morning.’ They could stop at the apothecary on the way back from the palace to buy what was needful. ‘I want to make love to you, and fall asleep with you, and wake with you in my bed in the morning.’

‘And maybe fuck me again?’

‘Insatiable horseboy. Wait and see. I don’t want to make you sore. I’d love to just lie with you now, but we’d better get dressed and see what Sûlos wants. Maybe he’s decided whom he’ll send to Gondor.’

Getting dressed was an unexpected delight, outside of Faros' experience. Catos alternately helped and hindered - one minute, buttoning Faros' dress, the next, kissing and cock-teasing. Faros enjoyed the easy companionship of it, the intimacy and the possessiveness, but his enjoyment was tinged with sadness at the thought of all that he and Patros had missed. He kept his thoughts to himself and laughed as Catos tried to both tie his own breechcloth and mould their hips together. So far that day, Catos had dealt with rejection, unjust accusations, the shade of Patros, and the aftermath of Bayos' abuse - and it wasn’t even midday yet. Faros stilled the younger man’s hands. 

‘Thank you.’

‘For?’

‘Not taking “no” for an answer. Understanding me so well.’ _Loving me._ ‘Here - let me tie that for you; you’re as clumsy as a _Harfling.’_ Catos stood loose and easy, acquiescing to the help offered. Faros twisted the ends of the cloth together with an intensity of concentration that was unwarranted by the task; to look into Catos' eyes or take heed of the firm lines of his long lean body would be too great a temptation. Failure to appear at the palace when summoned could jeopardise any chance they might have to travel as ambassadors to Gondor. Sûlos might understand their truancy, but he would not trust them to put his interests before their own gratification. 

Faros stretched for Catos' dress and held it up for him to turn and slip his arms into. He hugged Catos close as his horseboy flipped buttons into place. Only then did he release Catos, to turn him and kiss him, softly, lovingly, promising “later”. As they separated, Catos smiled at him, and the happiness Faros felt welled up like a spring breaking forth after a long drought. They spoke in unison, voices hushed to whispers.

‘I love you.’

Catos quietly sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, and Faros had to admit the truth of Yanos' words. Only a fool would have denied both himself and Catos this happiness when it had been there for the taking, months past. Catos canted his hips slightly, rubbing against Faros, his eyes open again and inviting. With regret, Faros gave a small shake of his head. ‘Don’t think for one minute that I don’t want to, but we must go.’

Catos grinned. ‘I’d rather come.’ He kissed Faros on the forehead, forestalling the words Faros was marshalling to explain why not. ‘Don’t look so worried. I do know. Orders are orders, even if they come in the guise of an invitation.’ 

They set out for the palace on foot. Catos hated litters, and Faros made a point of walking whenever possible, believing that nothing contributed more to public confidence in law and order than to see the judiciary walking about the city without a guard. Today, the colours of the city seemed brighter to Faros, as though the rains had washed the ubiquitous red dust away, but the rains were some way off yet, and the only difference was in the eye of the beholder. Catos had a spring in his step which reminded Faros of how his ward used to bounce when excited; he smiled and caught Catos' eye. The answering smile was endearingly shy, with a familiar duck of the head that came with embarrassment or uncertainty. Faros laid a reassuring hand flat-palmed against his lover’s back for a few moments and swallowed at the surge of desire he felt. The coming evening seemed a long way away.

At the palace, they were directed to the king’s private reception rooms where Sûlos greeted them warmly. Sûlos didn’t expect his close friends to make the prostration in private, but they all knew it pleased him after an absence. Faros watched as Catos slipped easily to his knees and dipped forward to kiss the king’s feet; it brought back, with arousing clarity, the image of Catos kneeling at his own feet that morning. 

‘You’re looking well, my friend.’

Faros jumped. ‘Baklos! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.’ He couldn’t prevent his eyes following Catos, as the young man was released from the king’s embrace and sought out Tarlos. ‘How are you? Is your wife well?’ He didn’t really listen to Baklos' reply. There was that duck-of-the-head from Catos again as Tarlos said something. Tarlos glanced towards Faros, laughed, and clapped Catos on the shoulder. Damn the man! Did he know, _already?_

‘I see your thoughts are elsewhere,’ said Baklos, and thankfully there was amusement rather than offence in his voice. ‘That’s a nasty wound, but I don’t think I’ve seen Catos looking so happy before.’ 

‘Catos always looks happy.’ _Except when he’s whimpering in pain and confusion , fingers clutching at me as I hold him close._ Faros gave his head a shake, refusing the image, and belatedly made eye contact with Baklos. ‘I don’t know anyone else like him.’ 

‘It’s good to see him home, Ah, now he looks more sombre.’

Faros looked back to Catos, now deep in earnest conversation with Tarlos; the latter stroked his chin thoughtfully, glanced at Faros again and turned Catos away from the room a little to make their conversation more private.

‘Faros!’

‘Hmm?’ Faros had trouble focusing back on Baklos.

‘I asked you when the lady Saskia returns. What’s the matter with you today, man? It’s time you realised where your heart lies and bedded that young man...’ Baklos tailed off, smacking his forehead with the palm of his hand in a parody of revelation. ‘You _have,_ haven’t you? I thought Catos looked like his whole body was singing a paean of glory a moment ago.’

There seemed no point in denying it to his close friend. ‘Yes.’ He moved to join his heart, wanting to know what Catos could possibly be talking about that had made him so serious of a sudden. It was like a jealousy, not of Tarlos, but of Tarlos being told something or knowing something that he did not. Baklos came with him.

‘Just “yes”?’

Faros paused and turned to Baklos, his dry humour to the fore. ‘No? Maybe? What other answers are there?’ 

‘“Mind your own business?’” suggested Baklos, making Faros laugh. Baklos laid a hand on Faros' shoulder. ‘I’m glad for you. Glad for both of you. You go on. I’ll get some drinks brought over.’

As Faros came within hearing, Catos broke off mid-sentence and smiled at him, the paean of glory that Baklos had spoken of plain to see again. 

Tarlos nodded greeting, but spoke to Catos. ‘I’ll talk to Sûlos now. As long as we have his agreement, I’ll see to all the arrangements. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you in Faros' hands.’ The smirk on Tarlos' face gave away the intended double meaning, and Faros rolled his eyes as his adversary in court, but at all times good friend, sauntered off.

‘Did you tell him, or did he just know?’

‘He asked, but... well, he knew to ask because of a conversation I had with Yanos.’

‘The one where he called me a fool?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what arrangements is he seeing to?’

‘Something I asked him to do.’

‘You’re not going to tell me?’

Catos shook his head. ‘Not yet. Tomorrow.’ He accepted a drink from a servant carrying a tray of glasses, and greeted Baklos warmly. The talk turned to Baklos’ family and Catos’ brother, and Faros gave up on any idea of cross-examining Catos. Instead, he listened, not to the words - he knew all the news - but to the sound of Catos’ voice. Even after several years in Hafar, Catos still had an accent that marked him as coming from a southern kingdom: a soft blurring of some sounds, a lengthening of others, and Faros let it wash over him, suddenly stunned by the thought that this man was his lover. He watched the movement of Catos' throat and jaw, the slow thoughtful movements of his hands, and was lost in a reverie of being given head while those hands wandered across his skin. 

‘I’m sorry, Faros. Did you say something?’

‘Uh?’ Faros blinked at Baklos.

‘I thought you spoke.’ Baklos considered Faros for a moment, then leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘I think you need to get your mind out of Catos' breechcloth, my friend. I believe Sûlos will chose you as ambassador to either Khand or Gondor, but _not_ if you’re unable to keep your mind on the moment. Pull yourself together. Now! This is not like you!’

Catos ducked his head, catching Faros' eye as he did so; his smile was one of pure happiness, presumably at the thought of Faros in his breechcloth. Faros sighed. ‘Yes, thank you, Baklos.’ He knew the advice to be just. Catos was acting with far more maturity, but - and the thought gave Faros a pang - it seemed that Catos had known this desire for a long time. _I love you. I’ve loved you for years - no one else, only you._ How many times had Catos stood by his side, with no outward sign of his wanting? He would apologise to Catos later, hopefully make the long wait worthwhile. For now he looked around to help compose himself. ‘No ladies,’ he commented. That meant business was intended. Only Sûlos' inner circle of close friends and advisors were present, but Faros had known that would be the case as soon as Balios directed them to the king’s private rooms. 

Now, Balios reappeared to request they make their way into the dining room. It was a large room, its aspect onto the king’s private garden shuttered against the midday heat, giving it a quiet and sleepy look. Chinks in the wood showed the brilliance of the sunshine outside, at odds with the wavering light of oil-lamps. The feeling of intimacy was heightened by the low light level; too many lamps would simply overheat the room. 

For those sitting at the head of the table with Sûlos, there was no question of precedent. Faros and Baklos took their places to the right of Sûlos, Tarlos - as proxy for Yanos - and Catos took their places on the left. Faros regretted the separation, even while appreciating the respite it gave him. The rest of the guests sat where they would, and Faros was aware of Tarlos' sharp eyes noting friendships - the possible cradle of factions.

‘I think it is a habit,’ commented Baklos drily, for Faros' ear only. ‘Since I don’t believe there are any here who aren’t trusted. Although does Tarlos ever trust anyone completely?’

‘His cousins, his concubine.’ They waited for Sûlos to sit, and followed his lead. 

Baklos toyed with the goblet before him, chased in silver and gold. ‘You know, it’s his concubine who really endears Tarlos to me.’

‘Many disapprove of her.’ Faros said this stiffly; having been a slave himself, he didn’t see why Lysia’s having been a lowborn slave should be any matter for comment. 

‘Yes, and Tarlos doesn’t care an Eye’s blink for such narrow thinking. You know, I found recently that she has been his love for years, long before he stood so high in the kingdom. Apparently, it was she who refused the title of lady, saying that as his concubine she would engender less spite. Tarlos wanted her to have full rights and privileges as his wife.’ 

The bustle of servants pouring wine subsided and the conversation around the table became more general. Catos answered questions on the Khand offensive as the many courses - some no more than tastes to clear the palate - came and went. Faros listened attentively, and not just for the sound of the loved voice; Catos had a good understanding of the enemy, and his opinions were always worth listening to. 

If Tarlos had made it known to Sûlos that two of his greatest Houses were now allied by bonds of love, Sûlos made no sign or reference. He spoke with Faros of their lands, of the royal harem, of his plans for building new aqueducts and for providing running water for the whole city, not just the wealthy few. He also questioned Faros about the state of the judiciary; a conversation that Faros hoped convinced Sûlos the courts could run smoothly in his absence, but the king dropped no hint as to his intentions. 

It was not until dishes of small sweets had been distributed, and the servants had retired to prepare coffee in the anteroom, that Sûlos stood, waving his guests to stay seated with downwards movements of his hands. Balios remained standing, holding an enamelled casket.

‘My lords, I have several matters to discuss with to you, but first I would like to make a private presentation, one that will be repeated before all Hafar at the earliest opportunity, but which - you will understand in due course - I wish the recipient to have now. Lord Catos.’ The king held out his hand, asking Catos to stand. ‘For your valour and leadership in the defence of this land and our people, I am delighted to confer on you the Order of Aquilmos.’ 

Balios opened the casket, amidst murmurs around the table, and Sûlos carefully lifted out the intricate gold chain with the eagle’s feathers and emeralds. He placed it around Catos' neck, reaching up to do so. Balios was there, smoothly, with no fuss, to make the fastening, and Sûlos embraced Catos to give him the royal kiss on one cheek, then the other. Catos cleared his throat self-consciously at the applause, which was no polite going-through-the-motions; there was no doubt as to the genuine approval and congratulations of most of those present. 

Sûlos smiled around the table, glancing briefly at Faros. ‘It is also my pleasure to inform you that following Yanos' recommendation, Catos has been promoted to the rank of a senior officer. However, his leave is rescinded and he will not be returning to my brother’s command at this time.’

‘M...my lord?’

‘I wish you to take command of the guard accompanying my ambassador to Khand, Catos.’

Out of the murmur of voices, one rose. ‘I have heard his bravery was reckless. He lacks maturity.’

Faros knew without looking who spoke; the man was loyal but always quick to question Sûlos, presuming on the fact that he had been blood-bonded to the king’s father. The lord in question was getting on in years, and had been heard to call Catos a young pup. 

’It's possible that a certain recklessness will be needed, should my embassy find itself compromised. Lord Catos has shown that he has a sound grasp of Khand politics, and his name is known. My spies report that he is regarded with respect. The bravery for which he has been rewarded was pivotal in their recent defeat; that defeat in turn has opened the way to negotiation. There is, I believe, a real opportunity for peace. Catos, will you take this commission?’

‘May I know whom I would be guarding?’ 

‘Does that have a bearing on your acceptance?’

‘I think so, yes. If your ambassador does not believe me fit for the task, then he is unlikely to take my recommendations seriously, that could in turn put my men at risk.’

Faros could not see Catos' face, and he kept his smile to himself. It would not be long before his lover was a power to be reckoned with. He looked up at the king, wanting to be sent with Catos, but knowing the price: he would not represent Harad before King Elessar, nor see Tolm. Sûlos met his gaze.

‘Lord Faros is my choice.’

At Faros' side, Baklos spoke. ‘An excellent choice, sire.’ There were murmurs of agreement. Faros bowed his head; let it be interpreted as his loyal acquiescence, but he suspected Sûlos would know that he was hiding a grief for what might have been.

‘Catos?’

’I’m honoured and accept gladly. How many men will I command?’

‘How many do you think you will need?’

‘Too few, and I’ll be ineffective; too many, and I’ll be seen as a threat. A cohort should be sufficient, if they’re well trained, especially if there were to be a strong Haradrim force on manoeuvres along the border.’

‘Good. Choose your own men later today. Be seated.’ Sûlos waited for the scrape of Catos' chair across the tiled floor to finish before he continued. ‘The Khand are keen for negotiations to begin, but it seems to me that we should not be too eager to respond. We have approached them with offers of peace on several occasions, and they have replied with more violence, leading to loss of life on both sides. Their people grow restless against the House of the Eye. If we let it be known that Faros is to be my ambassador, they will be pleased; he is known as a peacemaker. Regretfully, he has already left for Gondor.’

Faros' head jerked up; he heard the gasp from Catos. ‘I am still here, my lord.’ He hoped his dry tone hid his excitement.

‘You must leave tomorrow. I will send a reply to Khand the day after. The news that you will have seen the northern king first will give them pause for thought; they’ll not know what alliances have been entered into. If they don't already know that you are blood-bonded to one high in King Elessar’s favour, I will see that they do so before you cross their border.’ 

Catos cleared his throat again. ‘There will be dangers in Gondor. We cannot assume that Lord Faros will be safe because of ties of friendship.’

Sûlos laughed at that. ‘And so his guard will be needed. Yes?’

‘I am yours to command.’

’That's good, because I command you to protect my embassy to Gondor.’

It was with difficulty that Catos sat through the rest of the business. He was going to Gondor and Khand with Faros! Already, his mind was busy with planning; he didn’t really believe they would be in any danger in Gondor, so the guard could be smaller - a ceremonial presence rather than an effective fighting force. They would see Tolm! That thought nearly broke through his carefully schooled expression. What he wanted to do was to whoop and hug Faros close. Thank the Light that they would have tonight to love in comfort. What were their chances of being intimate on board a ship? Catos knew little of seafaring craft, only being familiar with local boats on the river Hafos. Where did one even sleep? On deck? He turned that train of thought aside; he would find answers in time. The announcement that Hanril of Gondor would be asked to accompany them as interpreter brought Catos' mind back to the king’s council. That was good news. An initial brief antipathy towards the man had given way to grudging regard, and then genuine liking and respect. That didn’t mean that he felt comfortable opening his innermost thoughts to Hanril in the way he would have to Tolm, and knowing his letters to Tolm went through the intermediary of Hanril’s translation affected what he said and how he said it. No matter. Now he would see Tolm, and the news dearest to his heart could be given in person. 

Sûlos brought the council meeting to an end, and they all stood to follow him out for coffee. Sûlos turned to take Catos' arm - a mark of great favour - and held out his free hand to Faros. ‘Come, my friends, take coffee with me. There is a lot to talk about.’ He nodded to his cousin. ‘Tarlos?’ 

It was Balios himself who brought their coffee into one of the small private audience rooms and placed it on a side table. He was dismissed with thanks. Sûlos stayed on his feet, and as the door shut behind the servant, he closed his eyes with a deep sigh. Catos had seen him do this before in private: a shedding of his kingship. He was not at all surprised that when Sûlos opened his eyes again and smiled, his whole body appeared to have relaxed. The king let go of Catos, but only to put an arm around him.

‘I trust you both,’ he said, looking from Faros to Catos and back to Faros.

‘Be assured; we will do our utmost to carry out your wishes,’ said Faros, and Catos felt proprietary pride in his quiet dignity. 

‘No, no,’ said Sûlos, bringing Faros into the fold of his free arm. _‘Not_ what I mean. I trust you both to love each other with discretion and to hold to that love throughout your lives. I trust you not to cause dissension in the future between two great and ancient houses over some matter of jealousy and lost faith, but to have and to hold. My dear friends, I trust you with each other’s hearts.’ He smiled at them both, turning from one to the other, before looking to his cousin. ‘I do not think my trust is misplaced, do you, Tarlos?’

‘No. This is a deep-rooted attachment, not to be broken lightly.’ Tarlos stepped in close to Faros. ‘But know this, my friend. If we’re wrong, and you cause Catos grief, I will personally geld you and feed your bollocks to the crows.’

Catos stiffened in indignation; he didn’t see why Faros should be singled out for this threat, even spoken lightly. If any grief had been caused between them, it was not Faros who had been the cause. Faros just looked sad. ‘Why is everyone so quick to believe that I don’t understand the gift I’ve been given, that Catos' heart is not _safe_ with me? Tarlos, would you explain this to me?’ 

It was Sûlos who answered. ‘Peace! He jests, Faros. You are both dear to us, but you are the elder, and I am not sure you yet understand the full generosity of Catos' love for you.’ 

Catos shifted his weight, both embarrassed and fearful of what the king would say. _Don’t tell him, don’t tell him about tomorrow._ It was a silent plea, but Sûlos said no more, and Catos relaxed. He didn't want anything to cast a shadow over the coming night. 

‘Yes, it was a jest,’ agreed Tarlos. ‘And in poor taste. I’m sorry, Faros. I don’t doubt your regard for Catos; if I’d known others had...’ He shrugged and looked apologetic. 

‘If only I could be met with such docility in court,’ replied Faros. Catos gave a snort of laughter. In court, Faros and Tarlos gave each other no quarter; there were many who wrongly believed the two lords to be sworn enemies.

‘And where would be the fun in that?’ countered Tarlos, pouring the coffee into small cups. The aroma filled the room, dark and inviting. ‘Anyway, what I want to know is, why you two have never taken an oath of blood between you.’

Catos accepted his cup and smiled at Faros. ‘There’s no need,’ he said simply. ‘His enemies have always been my enemies.’ Following the king’s example he reclined on a couch, stifling a yawn as he did so. The heat and the recent meal had compounded the effect of a lost night’s sleep; his earlier nap had not been rest enough. The coffee helped a little, but he was glad when Faros and Sûlos had done with discussing Gondor, and he could allow himself to drowse without missing anything the ambassador’s guard should know. He didn’t hear Balios return at the end of the respite to throw open the shutters, and it was the brush of fingers across his forehead that woke him. He struggled up, bleary eyed, to find the room full of the late afternoon sunshine; Faros sat at his side holding a glass of lime juice. A slight headache made Catos screw up his eyes against the light, while outside, the call of a bird, repetitive and insistent, made him wish he could screw up his ears in the same way. He shook his head a little, looking around the room before accepting the drink.

‘Sûlos and Tarlos have gone?’

Faros leaned in and kissed him. ‘Mmm. Yes. They seemed to think I would want to wake you without an audience. I love watching you sleeping, you know.’ He smiled, and Catos felt a deep welling-up of warmth at the sight of his love so happy and relaxed. 

_Am I doing the right thing?_ he wondered. _Should I tell Tarlos to forget it?_ It was a hard thing to deliberately cause grief when Faros seemed to have put grief behind him, but all the evidence earlier had shown Catos that the grief was still present. 

‘What? What’s the matter?’

‘Sorry, nothing. Just a muzziness in the head.’ Catos wriggle his shoulders in invitation and Faros slipped his arm around him. They leaned together with soft sighs, happiness mingling with regret that this was not the place or time to do much more. Catos slumped a little, making himself lower than Faros, and felt a thrill of more than just warmth as Faros bent his head to kiss him again. He opened his mouth, accepting and meeting Faros' probing tongue, and blindly fumbled the glass he held onto the ground. That left his hands free. One went instinctively to the back of Faros' head, pulling him into harder, rougher contact, while the other grabbed a fistful of Faros' dress. There was an ache in his balls and thighs, and a tightness in his chest like a hand folded around his heart. He had never understood before why poets chose the heart as having anything to do with love. His feelings found release in a sound deep in his throat, and he wished - with a small part of his mind that was still capable of rational thought - that he would stop doing that. Faros must think him pathetically needy. But Faros' reaction was to tighten his hold and press in with a greater urgency.

By the time they parted, Catos was a boneless heap only held together by Faros' arms. His breath came in short gasps, and his chin was stinging from the rasp of stubble, unnoticed at the time, but now adding to the feeling of wonder and _realness._ Faros gazed into his eyes as though there was nothing and no one else in his world. As their breathing slowed back to normal, they touched and stroked each other’s faces. Faros found his voice first, but it was hoarse and a little shaky.

‘What... what do you need to do... before we can go home?’

‘Make a will, perhaps?’

Faros frowned. ‘Before we travel, you mean?’

‘No. Before tonight.’ Catos watched Faros' face lighten into a laugh and smiled back. The night seemed far away. He sighed. ‘There’s much to do if we’re travelling tomorrow. I must choose your guard; that’s the priority.’ _I love you, I love you, I love you._ ‘I’ll send for my old cohort to accompany us to Khand.’ He struggled to sit, Faros' arm lending him impetus. ‘Bollocks. I’m pleased we’re going - more than pleased - but...’

Faros nodded his understanding. ‘I know. I just want to take you to bed, and let the world go hang.’ He shrugged his frustration. ‘As you say, “but”. It’s not as though we don’t _want_ to go. We’ll not have much privacy, you know, after tonight.’

‘Better make it good, then.’

Faros kissed him - the tender, gentle kiss. ‘I’ll do my best. Can I come with you now? I won’t try and influence your choice.’

‘Of course, Need you ask? I’m going to change into uniform first, otherwise I’ll just be “Catos, the boy”. Only a few of the king’s Household Guard have seen me since the overthrow of the Usurper.’

‘Perhaps you’re right, but I think you underestimate how much presence you have.’ Faros released Catos and stood, holding out his hand. ‘Let’s get through the rest of the day. I’ll ask Balios for some hot water and a change of clothes. We can have a proper bath later.’ They looked at each other and looked away. Best not to think of that yet.

In the barrack square, the Household Guard were at ease. The appearance was deceptive; Catos knew how hard these men trained. They were fiercely loyal to Sûlos, and most of them had been his personal guard since before he was king. Catos sought out their captain, who was not happy to hear that Lord Catos intended to commandeer some of his men. He stared gloomily at the signed paper in his hand. ‘You will take a whole _cohort!_ I cannot spare so many men, my lord. I must protest -’

‘No. Lord Yanos will supply the cohort.’ _Though he doesn’t know it yet._ ‘I need only twenty men. A small guard to accompany the king’s ambassador to Gondor; I’ll keep them under my command when Lord Faros travels to Khand.’ Such well-trained men were an invaluable resource, not to be reckoned by a head count alone. Catos was fairly sure that if Faros had not been standing politely to one side, gazing out of the window at the barrack square below, the captain would have had more to say on the subject, but he appeared mollified by the modesty of Catos' demands.

‘Very well. I’ll see whom I can spare.’

‘I’ll be asking for volunteers; I’ll choose whom I will.’ Catos was on solid ground here. The signed orders gave him the authority to do this. The last thing he wanted were men with a belligerent sense of national pride, who might go out of their way to insult or provoke foreigners. He stared the captain down, and the man coughed and shuffled his papers.

‘I will let it be known, Lord Catos.’

‘You misunderstand the urgency. I must choose today. I ask for the assembly to be sounded; I’ll speak to the men now.’ Catos noted the calculating look he was given: the captain was hoping that he could enjoy Catos’ embarrassment when no volunteers came forward. The man left the room with an exaggerated briskness that was doubtless a sarcastic comment on his having to take orders from a young upstart. 

Catos sighed and rubbed his face with his palms, pressing the heels against his eyes. ‘How did such a paper-pusher become a captain in the king’s elite guard?’ he asked wearily. It was a rhetorical question, and he was not surprised when Faros just shrugged. He didn’t want to feel this tired, not with the busy night he was hoping for, and neither did he like feeling judged on his brusqueness to the captain. ‘If I’d given the slightest sign of weakness, he’d have fobbed me off with his worst troublemakers.’

Faros turned from the window. ‘I’ll go if my presence worries you. I told you I wouldn’t interfere, and I didn’t just mean by making your choice for you.’ His lips quirked into a half smile. ‘If he’d gone on talking to you as though you were a fool, I might have arrested him for insolence to one of the ruling Houses. That law has never been repealed, you know.’

Catos smiled his appreciation of both the small joke and the implied support, and when the men were drawn up in the square, the process of selection proved easier than he’d anticipated. There were plenty of volunteers, and amongst them were men he knew - veterans of the Restoration. ‘You! Belmos, isn’t it?’

‘Who me, sir? Yes, sir.’ The man stood a little straighter, proud to be remembered. As though it were yesterday, the memory came fresh and clear to Catos, _“We thought he was mad, but it was inspired madness, if you know what I mean. We all went with him.”_

‘You went with Lord Faros to intercept the Usurper’s third army.’

‘Yes, sir, across the desert, sir.’ The man glanced to where Faros stood. ‘It was an honour. Like living in a legend, it was, to have the Sun appear in our midst. We couldn’t fail.’

Catos nodded and turned to another familiar face. ‘And you, you’ve met some of the soldiers of Gondor, haven’t you? What did you think of them?’

‘That’s right, sir. I went with Tolmos Aquilmos to meet the Gondorians. I’m surprised you remember, sir. A bit suspicious they were, and who can blame them, but really, they were just like us. When they got here, they wanted to know where the inns and brothels were.’

‘You showed them, did you?’

‘All in a day’s work, sir.’

Catos laughed. ‘And now you’re hoping they’ll reciprocate? No, don’t answer that. Your cousin’s in my cohort, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, sir. He says you have balls.’ 

Faros choked and was caught in a paroxysm of coughing. He waved Catos away, as he stifled more coughs. ‘I’m fine,’ he wheezed. ‘Please, continue.’ Catos nodded, wanting to make physical contact with this man who was suddenly, wondrously, his lover. He was painfully aware - by the ache of longing that pooled within - that he did indeed have balls. He made short work of choosing the men he wanted, dismissed the rest, and gave his new guard a taste of what was expected of them. 

‘I hope and believe that our embassy to Gondor will be peaceful. You will do _nothing_ to put that in jeopardy. No insults are permissible even under provocation, and at all times you will conduct yourselves with integrity. You will _not_ get drunk and you will _not_ brawl, do I make myself clear? If a brothel is offered, you may avail yourselves of it only if the whores seem genuinely willing and _clean._ I do not want you getting the pox. When we go to Khand, you will be on a state of alert at all times, and brothels will be out of bounds. My old cohort will be joining us, and if you’ve proved yourself to me in Gondor, I’ll put each of you in charge of twenty men. I want small, mobile units, so that if we come under threat in Khand, each group can operate independently. Our numbers will be too low for a direct assault. Should Lord Faros be held captive, other tactics will prove necessary.’ _I will tear the place down brick by brick, if I have to._ ‘Be prepared for night assaults and rooftop work. I want us armed for conventional warfare, which will be expected since we’re a guard, but I want you to have plenty of camouflage, ropes, knives - you know what is needed.’ The men nodded, they did know; Catos had seen them in action in the city during the Restoration. His cavalry cohort were loyal and knew his ways, but they didn’t understand this type of clandestine fighting. ‘Good.’ He turned to Belmos. ‘You will be my captain of the guard. Get your men kitted out with new uniforms, horses, stores for travelling. Don’t let anyone give you any crap. Find a well-mannered horse for Lord Faros. He’ll need a tent. Get bedrolls for both of us. Decide amongst yourselves who will cook, or whether it will be a shared rota. I don’t care which, as long as the food is decent. There’s a lot to do before tomorrow.’ _Like losing my virginity!_ ‘So get to it!’

Faros touched his shoulder briefly as they made their way back across the square. ‘That was... impressive. I can see why Sûlos wanted you to command my guard; I thought he was just letting us be together.’ 

‘If that _were_ the case, he’s got a strange sense of humour. It’ll be difficult to be intimate, but at least you’ll have a tent.’ Catos kept his laughter in check. ‘I believe it will be necessary for you to hold briefings with me about the embassy on a regular basis.’

‘Yes. Yes, I think that will be essential,’ agreed Faros with all of his usual gravity. He cleared his throat and glance around, checking on their privacy. ‘You know, I never have been fucked myself.’ His voice was conversational, but there was a slight shake to it. ‘I’d like to try that sometime.’ 

Catos made a small sound, a moan. He clamped down on it quickly and forced himself to keep walking. The prospect of fucking Faros was very arousing. ‘You know, your timing is crap.’ He lowered his voice even though there was no one close enough to hear. ‘Not tonight, though? Tonight I want your cock up _my_ arse.’ He’d been thinking about this a good deal, and he didn’t want to have a whole new set of worries and uncertainties.

Faros closed his eyes briefly. ‘Sweet Lady, Catos! Can we go home now? I need you in bed.’ They entered one of the palace corridors, theirs eyes adjusting again to the lower level of light. Soon the servants would be along to open the shutters onto the kitchen garden, letting in the sun and the evening breeze, but for now it was empty.

‘We could go to my room here.’

‘The bed’s too small. I told you: I want to have you, and hold you, and fall asleep where we lie.’

‘Will you mind? If I’m not as good as...? If I’m not very...?’ 

‘Catos!’ Faros swung around abruptly, halting their progress. He took Catos by the shoulders to give him a rough shake, and held his gaze, not angry exactly - exasperated, maybe. ‘It doesn’t matter if between us we make the most complete -’ His expression softened into amusement, and his sudden laughter was warm and reassuring, ‘- the most complete _cock-up_ of it. It doesn’t _matter_ if every thing you’re imagining that could go wrong, does in fact go wrong. Stop worrying. Trust me.’ 

Catos swallowed and nodded. The clatter of shutters being folded back parted them. Faros released Catos' shoulders, briefly smoothing the creases his fingers had made in the material of the tunic. He glanced round at the servant, who - at least outwardly - appeared engrossed in his task. 

‘Do you need to do anything else or _can_ we go home?’

‘I need to report to Tarlos, but that won’t take long.’ Catos touched the feathers at his neck. ‘I’ll change and leave this with Balios to pack.’ 

‘I need to visit the apothecary.’

‘I’ll meet you there.’ They stood awkwardly, neither making a move. Had the servant not been near they would have marked this first small parting with some sign of affection. Faros broke the impasse, laying his palm briefly against Catos' back and then simply walking away. Catos sighed, and took a short cut through the gardens to find Balios and arrange for his packing to be done.

He was right that his meeting with Tarlos would be brief. He let Tarlos know how many men he was taking from the Household Guard and asked for his old cohort to be sent for. They spoke of arrangements for the next day, but Tarlos had everything in hand. Catos hugged him, expressing his thanks. He visited his room to change back from uniform to dress, folded his red cloak carefully, and went to meet Faros. As they walked back across the city, Catos was quiet and introspective; he was thinking of Patros, of all the deaths he himself had seen, and of Yanos’ insistence that funeral rights were held whether there was a body recovered or not. It was important to respect and honour the dead, important to allow the men to grieve and move on. 

As they entered the house, Faros took his hand. ‘What is it, Catos? What’s bothering you?’

‘Nothing.’ Catos had no intention of saying, _“the dead”._ Not here; not in this house. 

Faros raised his eyebrows: a solid line of disbelief. ‘Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Look, there’s no hurry over this. Come and have a glass of wine in the garden while we wait for supper.’

‘Are you trying to seduce me?’ Catos was amused.

‘If that’s what it takes, but I’ll settle for seeing you relax.’

They sat out in a leafy arbour where long pendulums of scented white flowers hung through a criss-crossing framework of wooden beams, intertwined with grape-laden vines. The hum of bees vied with a bird’s song that rose and fell on the warm air, and the only harsh note was a repetitive _quark quark_ from one of the brightly-coloured birds that flocked into the garden at this time of day. Faros sat across the table, just out of reach, smiling quietly. Catos sipped his wine and stretched out his long legs. It was pleasant to sit here in the shade, a small turning back to the easy friendship they had always enjoyed together. As the light failed, the hum of bees was replaced by the stridency of crickets and cicadas, and the birds fell silent. Servants came, bringing scented candles to keep away biting insects, although these had become less of a problem since Sûlos had ordered the draining of the swamp lands that always formed after the rains. 

The food came as mezedes, a variety of small dishes that just kept appearing until the servants were having trouble finding space on the table. Catos moved the wine to make way for a basket of warm flat-bread to dip into bowls of pureed chick peas with sesame paste and lemon, grated cucumber in yoghurt and mint, and an avocado puree - all of them redolent with garlic. There were plates of small river fish, cubes of meat skewered and cooked over charcoal, vine leaves and tomatoes stuffed with fragrant rice, bowls of olives. The informality and the distance Faros maintained were just what Catos needed to relax. To the servants, hoping maybe for some gossip, the meal was probably a disappointment: two friends talking into the evening, discussing politics and art, speculating about foreign lands, and reminiscing over a small harbinger of good luck, a _Halfling_ from the north. It was only when they had finished nibbling at sweet and sticky pastries and turned to coffee - when they could reasonably be expected to be undisturbed - that the subject of love came up. 

Catos swirled the thick grounds in his cup and looked up to hold Faros' gaze for the first time. ‘You know, I think that’s when I first loved you, when you were so kind to Tolm after you’d bought us in the market.’ 

‘I nearly didn’t buy you.’

This was news to Catos. ‘Why not?’

‘Because of Bayos.’ Faros didn’t allow the conversation to dwell on this. ‘I can’t believe how much hung on that decision. I can’t believe I went into the market just hoping to get finished quickly, with no foreknowledge of -’ He pushed his cup away and came to stand behind Catos, hands kneading at his shoulders. ‘Love just crept up on me, you know.’ 

Catos tilted his head back, leaning into Faros' body. Through a gap in the leaves a full moon shone bright gold. They could leave shutters open in the bedroom and make love by moonlight. The full moon was a good omen, a blessing on new beginnings, but that still left him unsure of his abilities in bed. Faros sensed his uncertainty.

‘Now you’re tense again. I promise I’ll not do anything you don’t want; I’ll stop anytime you say. If you don’t like - ‘ Faros must have caught the way Catos shifted beneath his hands. He paused in mid-sentence and leant down to kiss him on the forehead. ‘Is that what’s worrying you? So - we don’t do it again. But _I_ think you’ll be begging for it.’ The husky note on the word “begging” brought the ache back to Catos' balls and a fluttering sensation to his stomach.

‘I’ve been begging for it all day.’

‘Mmm. I know. And I’ve had trouble keeping my hands off you. We’ll have a bath together and then things will happen as they happen. Yes?’

Catos nodded. In his opinion, had there been no reason for Faros to buy his house out of sentiment, then the bathing room alone would have been reason enough. One side of the building housing the deep blue-tiled bath was open to a small secluded garden, with climbing plants blurring the boundary between the two. Screens were available, but rarely used, since the dense planting both acted as a windbreak and ensured privacy. The floor and walls were bright mosaics of colour, and Catos always took great pleasure in bathing there. He readily acknowledged to himself that some of that pleasure was because Faros often joined him - a source both of his best wank-fantasies and of frustration - but the place had an understated elegance and an airy lightness that were a delight in their own right.

Now, as Catos stood just inside the bathing room, waiting with rapidly beating heart while Faros secured the door against interruption, he thought again of those fantasies. What were the chances of Faros fucking him in the bath or the garden, or, even better, both? Catos sighed his regret; Faros had been very clear about what he wanted, and what he wanted was “bed”, but hopefully there would be plenty more opportunities - if they came home from Khand safely. A knot of fear tightened around his heart, quenching his body’s response to those balls-induced memories. _What if I lose him? I’d give my life to protect him, and only grieve at the grief I would cause._ He stared unseeing out into the garden, pondering whether he could act in a rational way if Faros were in danger, whether he was the best person to protect the one dearest to his heart. _I’ll have to be; I’ll trust no one else with his life._ He jumped as arms wrapped across his chest, bringing his focus back to the present, and the next moment he shivered with longing as light kisses traced down the back of his neck.

‘You only have to say if you’re having second thoughts.’ Faros breath wafted warm against Catos' ear. ‘There is no - mmmmphh.’ Faros stepped back to keep his balance as Catos turned; he thudded into the closed door, the breath driven from him in a gasp of surprise, his expression of soft concern turned to raw need. Catos trapped him there with the weight of his body, cupping Faros' face with his hands as he did so. Their mouths came together with a new urgency. Catos met Faros' tongue with his own and pressed his body in hard. With eyes closed, longing met longing in a world of darkness that heightened every touch. They were both whimpering, moaning, desperate for each other. Catos thought, _He wants me as much as I want him. Just this morning, I didn’t know, and now - this!_

They parted, panting, resting forehead to forehead, while fingers plied buttons undone and pulled unwelcome cloth free. Faros caught their cocks together in one hand - not encircling, but constraining - while his other hand moulded to the curve of Catos' arse. His voice was a breathless whisper.

‘No doubts, then?’

It was never what Faros said, but the way he said it. Catos started laughing, short of breath as he was, hazed by desire as he was. He didn’t answer with words, but dropped to his knees to nuzzle against Faros' belly until he’d recovered breath enough to take Faros' cock into his mouth. The fullness and now familiar taste gave him a deep thrill of pleasure. He closed his eyes again to recapture the intensity of sensations, and folded one hand around Faros' shaft to roll back the foreskin, sucking and lapping at the cock head as he did so. With his other hand, he kneaded blindly at the muscles of Faros' inner thigh. Faros stroked over his neck and shoulders, not trying to force Catos to take him deeper, but encouraging him to do what he would, unhindered. 

In turn, Catos listened to Faros through touch and sound: the tensing of his muscles, the stilling of his hand that said _yes, good!_ and the soft sighs. There was something very fulfilling about this slow exploration with lips and tongue, a sense of losing self in the rhythm of the movements. Catos tightened his lips around the rigid shaft, pulled slowly back over the rim of the crown, and dipped down again while his tongue swirled and probed. He felt Faros twitch.

‘C... Catos!’ Faros grasped the single braid at the back of Catos' neck and pulled. ‘Stop! Stop now!’ 

Catos rocked back onto his heels to look up, while his thumb took over the exploration that his tongue had regretfully relinquished, spreading weeping fluid in lazy circles. Faros was worth looking at: dark eyes half-hidden by lowered lids, face slack, lips full and slightly parted. Amidst Catos’ desire-addled thoughts there was room for a little smugness. _I did that to him…_

Faros stilled Catos’ hand with fingers tight around his wrist. ‘I... said... stop!’ Despite the tightness, Catos could feel the fine tremble.

‘Why?’ Damn! That sounded like the whine of a sulky two year old. 

‘Because... I’m not as young... as you. I’m not sure... how many times... I can come in a day... and still be up... for more.’ Faros pulled Catos to his feet and wrapped his arms around him, his breathing a little steadier now. 

‘But was it good?’ Despite all the evidence, Catos still needed this reassurance.

‘Good? No, it wasn’t good.’ Faros gave a soft laugh. ‘It was... breathtaking. What was it you said about needing to make a will?’ He released Catos, pushing him away a little, and bent hastily to untie his sandals.

‘Let me.’ Catos knelt again, working the leather free despite Faros' protest. He had enough sense not to say, “You are my master.” That would _not_ go down well. Instead he said, ‘I like doing it. Hold still. Anyway, an old man like you shouldn’t be expected to have to bend down.’

‘Horseboy, do you _want_ to get into trouble?’

‘Mmm. Yes?’

In the bath, Faros refused to let Catos touch him, firmly removing his hands every time he tried. Catos didn’t mind; it was not as though Faros were forbidden territory, as he had been for so long, and this unwillingness now was - in a small way - a tribute to Catos’ ability to arouse him. Catos especially didn’t mind since Faros had no such compunction in touching him. The bath was mainly memorable in its promise of what could and would be done in the future, its _potential,_ but afterwards one moment always stood out as a clear watershed in Catos' mind between his wish to lose his virginity and his apprehension of what doing so would be like. Before, his anxiety was like a discordant note weaving through all the building crescendo of his desire; after, there was only the burning need to be fucked. 

Faros washed Catos all over, his hands moving with slow thoroughness, taking possession of his lover’s body. He drew him close in a kiss that melted Catos against him, and smoothed his soap-slick hands down Catos’ back, and on down to his arse. Catos was so relaxed in Faros' arms that he made no resistance as a finger teased and probed at his opening, broaching the ring of muscles. He welcomed the entry and felt for the first time just how good it could be. 

Not touching was suddenly impossible. Catos’ fingers curled around Faros’ hips, bracing him instinctively as he thrust against him with a cry. Faros thrust back, and enveloped Catos’ mouth with his own in a kiss that was hard and rough and demanding. Their bodies ground together, smouldering desire leaping into consuming fire. Unable to beg with words, Catos let his body and hands speak through the urgency of their movements. _Please - now! Don’t stop - don’t stop! Fuck me - now!_ The soap-slick finger probed deep, and Catos went rigid, clutching Faros with bruising force. He tightened around the welcome intrusion, not sure what Faros had done, but wanting more, wanting the moment to build and build into release. Faros’ plan for bed be damned.

Faros eased back just enough to be able to see Catos’ face, even while he held him impaled, and Catos trembled with desire at the dark hunger he saw there. Faros’ voice was a whisper. ‘You like that, don’t you?’ Then huskier, more urgent, ‘I want you.’

‘Here. Now.’

Faros shook his head, but his voice gave away the difficulty with which he spoke. ‘Bed. I want you... in bed.’

Rinsing was cursory, drying they didn’t bother with; they wrapped towels around their waists - which only seemed to emphasise their rigid cocks - and hastened back to their room, hand in hand, fingers tightly interlocked. Any closer contact was like touching a too sensitised spot, and Catos was reminded of the warning that came with fireworks: set light to the touch paper and retire. He was very aware just how fragile a thing Faros’ control was, aware of how easily he could break it, be slammed up against the nearest wall and fucked on the spot.

They scattered a group of three servant girls whose eyes went wide at the sight of them; the wenches covered their mouths with their hands and regrouped behind them, giggling and chattering with excitement. Neither man spared them a second glance. 

Behind the privacy of their bedroom door, they let the towels fall and moved with purpose to the bed. All day had been a form of foreplay and now came the consummation. Faros paused only long enough to retrieve a jar of ointment from his bedside table and break the apothecary’s seal. Catos still had some uncertainties - no longer that he might not enjoy being fucked, but about the mechanics of the coupling. He did not want Faros to cover him like a stallion, not this time, anyway. He wanted to hold eye contact as he was entered; he wanted to be able to see Faros' face and watch him come. He lay back on the bed, displaying himself, his cock aching and hard, his balls tight.

Faros knelt between his thighs, his face intent as he smoothed his hands over Catos' chest. Catos had forgotten - amongst all the wonder of Faros loving him - how good that had felt before. He reached up to stoke Faros' face, and whimpered as Faros captured his thumb within his mouth. His whole body seemed attuned to his one need to be fucked. With his free hand he reached for the viscous ointment to spread over Faros’ cock, rolling back the foreskin as he slid his fingers down the rigid shaft. _I want you._ He reclaimed his thumb, needing both hands to draw up his legs, to offer himself. _Now!_

Faros laid his hands against Catos’ thighs, pushing them further up and apart. He frowned. ‘Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather come down on me?’ 

‘No. Like this!’ Was it too soon to start begging? Probably not. ‘Faros, please! Not your fucking finger, I want _you!’_ He canted his hips up further as Faros anointed him, and swore as Faros stroked his cock and teased him again with the slow slide of a finger that promised so much. 

‘Shh. Shh, horseboy. I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to be ready for this. I -’

‘For fuck’s sake! I’m ready! I’m... ready. Please, Faros. Now!’ 

Faros shifted, taking his weight on one hand, guiding his cock with the other. Catos sighed in relief. He was warm and relaxed from the bath, ready and waiting, had been waiting so long. He cried out as Faros entered him, but not from pain. The sensation was intense; a stretching and filling, but also arousing far beyond his powers of description. He had always been aware that thoughts and feelings existed without the need for words - that words were just the outward expression of a process that went far deeper - and now there were no words for this primal lust that coiled through him. He whimpered, wanting more. 

Faros stilled with only his cock head sheathed, holding Catos' gaze. He was so... so beautiful, the small frown back as he held himself in check. ‘Push against me,’ he whispered. ‘As though you would push me out. Don’t clamp down, not yet. Push against me.’

It made little sense, but trust needed no sense, and Catos obeyed without question. Faros thrust into him in one long slow motion, that stretched and seared before flowing into an all engulfing joy, mirrored back to him in Faros' face. Faros eased back, their bodies further apart than Catos had hoped, but with each sure thrust, they came into closer contact. Catos had all the suppleness of youth, and his body was well used to exercise; he barely noticed when the gradual stretch of his leg muscles allowed him to open wide with no help needed, freeing his hands to make love to Faros' body. Faros, in turn, gradually thrust deeper and deeper, until his weight lay on Catos, heated skin moving against heated skin. Catos was briefly aware of his cock trapped between them, but his mind was so overwhelmed by the intense wonder of it all, that he lost touch of each small part. It was like losing himself in the magic of the drum circle, as the beat built layer upon layer, faster and faster, spiralling upwards to its climactic end. Just when Catos thought he could take no more, bear no more, that he must come or die in the frenzy of the dance, Faros eased back, gave him respite, before bringing him to the edge again. Catos cried out, not caring how much noise he made, his hands scrabbling at Faros' back in his desperate need. ,em>Let me come, let me come! Faros groaned and thrust faster, his head bowed to Catos' breast. Dimly, Catos was aware of fingers curling around his shaft, pushing him to that point of no return. He arched into the deep strokes, tightening around the cock that pierced him, and came with great shuddering waves of release that seem to stretch and spin into eternity, and yet be over too soon, too soon. He lay, open and filled and _loved_ beyond his reckoning. He had not known it could be like this.

‘Catos!’ Husky and desperate, Faros’ voice brought Catos back to himself. Faros was still moving, thrusting with a rough urgency, one hand beneath Catos’ hips now, supporting him as he ground against him. His face was slack, his lips parted, his dark eyes losing focus: Faros on the edge. Catos tightened around him again, pushing up to meet him, and with a deep groan, Faros came, as though his release were torn from him. He went limp, his full weight collapsing onto Catos, and they lay together, drenched in sweat, too breathless to speak. No words were needed. Still coupled together, they held each other in the shared intimacy of their post-coital elation, their bodies saying “I love you,” with every breath, every heartbeat. At some point, they shifted, getting more comfortable. At some point, they drifted into an exhausted sleep, their limbs entwined.

When Catos woke he lay in the darkness behind closed lids trying to make sense of where he was. There was a weight across his chest that made him think of tight bandages, and for a frightening moment he thought he was in the hospital tent. The scent on the air was not the foetid smell of infected wounds, though, but the musky smell of sex, and suddenly he knew where he was and why his arse felt sore. He stretched with a satisfied sigh and opened his eyes. Faros lay awake beside him, propped on one arm quietly watching him. As he met Catos’ gaze, he smiled and leant in to kiss him, teasing a little at his lips.

‘Good morning, horseboy.’ 

‘Mmm.’

Faros ran his free hand down over Catos’ body, cupping his hip and drawing him close. ‘How are you feeling? Sore?’

‘A little. ‘sgood.’ Catos wrapped an arm around Faros, and wriggled to get a comfortable fit as their bodies pressed together. ‘You can fuck me again, any time.’

‘Sadly, Sûlos expects us at the palace. I’m not sure why; it doesn’t sound as though we’ll be leaving until later in the day.’

There was a loud knock on the door, which saved Catos from having to find words to explain what he had set in motion, but the reprieve was short lived. Faros pulled on a dressing robe and opened the door to Rufos carrying a tray; he stepped aside to give his steward entrance and stared in dismay at his unbordered white dress and white robe. 

‘Rufos! What...! Who has died?’

Rufos glanced at Catos. ‘Ah. I’ll just leave the coffee here and let Catos explain. Water is ready for your bath, and breakfast is set out in the morning room. I’ll, er, see you shortly.’ Faros shut the door behind his steward’s hasty retreat; he turned slowly, eyebrows raised.

‘Catos? Who has died? Why is Rufos dressed for a funeral?’

‘Patros. Patros has died.’ 

‘Patros! Are you mad! He died more than four years ago! He was cremated on a communal pyre.’

‘Maybe so, but his funeral is today.’ Catos stepped in close and laid a hand on Faros' shoulder, uncertain of his reception. When his touch wasn’t rejected, he took Faros in his arms. ‘Yanos never lets a man be lost without holding funeral rights, even if the body is not recovered.’

‘An empty bier! How can that be a funeral?’

‘Don’t be angry. Or... or if you are angry, forgive me. I’ve seen the difference it makes, to know the dead are honoured.’

‘Why didn’t you ask me? Or tell me yesterday?’ Yes, Faros _was_ angry, his body tense, his voice harsh.

‘Because... because...’ _Because I was thinking of myself._

Faros sighed, the tension draining from him on the outbreath. ‘I can see why you didn’t want to say anything yesterday, but it seems... pointless.’ 

He was silent and introspective as they bathed and broke fast. Catos dismissed Faros’ manservant and took over his offices, but Faros seemed hardly aware that it was Catos who shaved him and braided his hair without ornamentation. Always a traditionalist, Faros made no fuss about wearing white; he might not see the point of performing funeral rites so long after the event, but he would do them right. 

In the entrance hall, not only Rufos and his wife Callia awaited them, but also servants like the gardener Mathos, who had been slaves with Patros. Tarlos and his beautiful Lysia were there, both as friends of Faros and to represent Sûlos, since the king’s presence with his guard would have given the funeral an unwelcome prominence. With them stood Baklos and his wife. There were only a few wreaths of white jasmine at such short notice, but the sweet heady scent still filled the air. Rufos wore one such wreath, and he placed another around Faros’ neck. He held out his hands, palm up, and the two men made greeting as they had always done as slaves. All that was missing was the hug at the end - in deference to the wreaths they wore - but they clasped one another by the shoulders and smiled at each other. 

There were years of memories of Patros in those smiles that Catos had no knowledge of. He stood back, aware that he had no real part to play, and also aware that he could never ask what he really wanted to know. _Do you love me best?_ He could never ask, and Faros would never say. 

Faros turned, searching for Catos. As their eyes met, his expression softened, warmed, and he held out his hand, asking Catos to join him. 

_He loves me; that’s all I need._ Catos stepped up to his side and stayed there throughout the walk to the tombs of the kings outside the city. Beyond the tombs, the land fell away to the flood plain and the river - not a fashionable place to be cremated, but traditionally where the bodies of slaves had been brought in the past. The pyres would have been simple, the coffins some cheap wood, but that was not the case today. In the still air, the scent of cedar mingled with that of jasmine. As the mourners spread out, and the bier was laid on the pyre, Catos moved away a little, to be able to watch Faros without its being obvious that he did so. 

Faros uttered the formal words of lament, Rufos spoke the eulogy, then Faros spoke again, invoking the blessing of the Valar, asking them to receive Patros beyond the mystery of death. Catos had heard it many times before, but there was a comfort in the familiarity of it. 

_Lord of the Breath of Arda, see us as we stand in supplication: our pleas for your intercession rise with the beat of wings on the winds of the world. Lady of the Stars, hear our voices as we mourn our loss. Light is your joy; behold the flames that burn in your honour. Lord of the Waters, you give us life, take now in your mighty river the ashes that we scatter. Lord Keeper of the Houses of the Dead, hold safe your servant Patros, until he passes from the confines of your halls; Lady of Tears bring him strength of spirit to stand at last before the One. Lord of Visions and Dreams, with your fair wife, the Lady of Healing, ease our grief as we mourn our loss._

The fire kindled quickly, roaring and crackling into a life of its own. Released from their cage, white doves flew high, wings beating as they rose into the blue sky. Faros’ face was grave but composed. Possibly only Catos, and maybe Rufos, knew him well enough to recognise how rigidly he was keeping his emotions in check. Catos ached to take him in his arms and offer comfort. The flames leapt upward, the air shimmering with the heat, and they all joined in the general lamentation that was without words, an ululation that could numb the mind. It was an entity in its own right, having a natural life whose ending was sensed collectively. Years before Catos’ small brother Minos had asked him, _‘But how do you know when to stop?’_ and Catos had answered, _‘I don’t know; you just do.’_

Faros scattered the seeds that signified both rebirth and the cycle of life, and Rufos poured a libation of wine onto the sun-baked soil. The reason for the wine had never been successfully explained to Catos; he presumed the gods liked a drink as much as anyone. As they waited for the fire to die down enough for a servant to rake out a little of the ash, small conversations started: shared memories of Patros. Catos put an arm around Faros’ shoulders, as any friend might do, but Faros took a deep breath and shook his head. 

At last, some of the ashes were gathered into a casket and offered to Faros. He took a handful and broadcast the fine grey dust across the surface of the river. In turn, they each dipped a hand in the water, and with wetted finger, transferred a daub of the ash from casket to forehead. One of the servants took the casket for safe keeping, and they walked back into the city in a loose procession. The Lamplighters’ Inn was a thoughtful touch for the funeral feast; presumably Rufos had suggested it.

Farewells followed. Faros and Catos would leaving for Gondor after the respite; it would be weeks before they returned, only to set out again almost immediately for Khand. Tarlos and Lysia walked back to the palace with them, but Faros was quiet and withdrawn - hard to engage in conversation and answering direct questions with monosyllables. The market square had already emptied as they crossed it, and Catos was glad to reach the cool atmosphere of the shuttered palace. He had a headache from standing in the sun too long. 

In the palace, Tarlos had one last surprise - for Catos as well as for Faros. The _Halflings’_ rooms had been refurnished for their use. Catos closed the door, smiling with affection as he heard Tarlos' and Lysia’s muffled voices receding, interspersed with laughter that could be heard even after words could not. He turned to the dim room, and his smile faded. Faros stood gazing into the tall mirror between shuttered windows, ignoring the comfort of well-upholstered chairs and the call of the bedroom beyond. Catos could only see Faros’ face by reflection; the familiar gravity marred by a lack of focus, the ash starkly pale against brown skin. He hesitated, uncertain whether he had made a terrible mistake, whether he’d simply revived old griefs rather than helping lay them to rest. Whatever the reason for Faros’ earlier rejection of his sympathy, it had hurt. 

‘Faros?’

‘Hm?’ Faros turned, but still with that unfocused look, as though he didn’t really see Catos.

‘Forgive me.’

That produced a reaction. Faros' gaze snapped into focus, and he frowned at Catos. ‘What?’

‘I... I’m sorry.’

Everything about Faros changed, from the way he stood to his expression; everything about him was suddenly more open, receptive, softer. He held out his arms. ‘Oh, love! Come here.’ Even his voice had softened. He wrapped his arms around Catos and drew him into a kiss which was entirely lacking in passion but was nevertheless full of love. The gentleness of it brought tears to Catos’ eyes. 

‘Faros, I -’

‘Hush. I just wish you didn’t all know me better than I know myself. I _am_ a fool, I _didn’t_ appreciate how generous your love is, and today was _far_ from pointless.’ Faros rubbed his thumb over the ash smeared onto Catos' forehead. ‘Thank you. I didn’t realise how much I needed that - how much I believed that Patros needed that. I know he wasn’t there, not really, but it seemed as though he were. Thank you for thinking of it. How did you?’

‘You were so upset yesterday, and... and it’s the cavalry way, so I thought...’

‘Dear Catos, do you know _why_ I was so upset?’

‘You were thinking of Patros, remembering -’

‘Yes, I was. That’s true. But it was the thought of losing you, the thought of how much I love _you._ I mourned for Patros today, but the worse moment was when I imagined how I would feel if you...’ Faros took a deep breath. ‘Will you...?’

‘What?’

‘Will you help me to be a better swordsman?’ 

Catos blinked at the sudden change in subject. ‘Faros! You hate using the sword!’ 

‘If we run into trouble in Khand, I don’t want to be a liability, and I _don’t_ want to find myself in a situation where I can’t defend you, should the need arise.’

‘This is the Peacemaker talking?’

‘This is the man-who-loves-you talking. I’m serious.’ 

The thought of Faros defending his back was both touching and scary, but at least they’d die together. Faros gave a huff of annoyance. ‘Don’t laugh! I really am serious.’

‘Then I’ll do my best. We’ll need some scimitars; I can probably -’ Catos stopped talking as Faros kissed him again - a gentle pressure of lips against his.

‘Stop planning. Come and rest.’

‘Rest?’

It was Faros' turn to laugh at the disappointment in Catos’ voice. ‘Lie down, anyway. And _I_ need to rest.’

‘Poor old man.’

‘Incorrigible horseboy.’

They smiled at each other, even as fingers reached for buttons to rid themselves of their funeral clothes. Soon they would travel together into unknown lands, be reunited with old friends, possibly share dangers, but for now all they wanted was to be naked together in bed, to love and be loved. 

It was enough.


End file.
